


Gather this Party

by heartslogos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 118
Words: 134,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartslogos/pseuds/heartslogos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU of the Inquisition and its members. A series of vaguely connected drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Same F!Lavellan from Mala Suledin Nadas, but you don't need to read that one to read this one.

"What do you mean you've  _lost_ her?"  
  
"I mean I've lost her, how is this so hard for you to understand?" Dorian repeats, "Besides, this place is a giant maze full of sensation traps. I'm amazed I even managed to keep a hold of her as long as I did."

"Told you we should've brought the child leash." Bull says to Cassandra who looks like she deeply regrets not bringing a flask like Bull told her to.  
  
"You've lost the Inquisitor of Thedas in a  _theme park_." Cullen repeats, looking a little dazed and on the verge of panic. "She could be anywhere, Dorian.  _Anywhere_. What if she's in danger?"  
  
"In a theme park?" Varric snorts.  
  
"I once pick pocketed over a thousand dollars worth of shit at a theme park." Sera throws in, "Two passports, five plane tickets, and a diamond ring, not included."  
  
"She's doomed." Dorian concludes.  
  
"Has anyone considered calling her on her phone?" Krem throws in from where he's busy trying to unstick Skinner and Dalish's hands. "And this is why we never buy candied  _anything_. I swear you do it on purpose."  
  
"At least we're not stuck together at the mouth this time." Skinner throws in.  
  
"Yeah, this way you get to give me lip as I try to unstick your damned hands." Krem snorts.  
  
" _Of course_  I've tried calling her." Dorian snaps, "I've tried calling her and texting her a dozen times! Nothing!"  
  
"You guys aren't thinking about this the right way." Varric says, waving a them to calm down. "You're going about this like sane,  _logical_ people."  
  
"The Inquisitor isn't insane." Cullen and Cassandra throw in, mostly out of reflex than anything else. Bull snorts and goes to try and help Krem separate the two elves, handing off the giant pink stuffed cow he won to Cullen, who looks mildly baffled by the turn of events thus far.  
  
"How do we do this, then?" Sera asks, snapping some bright blue gum.  
  
"Well." Varric says, "If we were Dalish elves who tend to wander off the beaten path, literally, at the drop of the hat, and were taken to an amusement park full of nice shiny and new things to explore, where would I go that I most likely didn't get a chance to look at because I'm surrounded in old worrying ninnies?"  
  
Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian, and Sera pause before turning to look at the tallest roller coaster in the center of the park. The one they've all been avoiding because it has a history of breaking down, leaving people stranded for hours, or killing people in grotesque and extremely disturbing ways.  
  
"Maker's  _breath_." Cullen whispers at the same time Cassandra reaches into Dorian's bag and pulls out his flask.  
  
"She is dead." Dorian concludes. "Dead. She's  _dead_. And I'm gone. Goodbye, cruel and ridiculous world."  
  
-  
"Well if  _you_ didn't kill them with bees, and if  _I_  didn't kill them with bees, then  _who_ killed them with bees?" Lavellan asks, looking baffled as she and Sera look around the area. "And where did the bees go? And where did they come from? Why do we have bees in  _bottles_? Bees do not belong in bottles. They should be out in the wild making honey. Bees are in danger, Sera. I think we should stop using bees to kill people."  
  
Dorian wonders if this is normal, turns to Cassandra who looks like she's mentally reciting the entire canticle of Threnodies, and decides it probably  _is_ and he ought to be bringing something stronger in his flask.  
  
"Well maybe one of the scouts killed them with bees." Sera replies, looking as equally baffled as Lavellan as she nudges a dead mercenary with the tip of her boot. "I dunno. Don't ask  _me_ , I mean - I wasn't here. We could check the cameras or something, but I dunno. Does it really matter who was doing the killing with bees as long as the killing gets done? Makes our job easier, yeah?"  
  
"I suppose." Lavellan agrees, worrying her bottom lip, "But now I'm worried someone will use bees on us."  
  
"A valid concern." Dorian throws in, "But if we could get moving? We are on somewhat of a schedule here?"  
  
Lavellan hushes him and Dorian turns to Cassandra again but the woman is determinedly staring off into the distance, probably in deep communion with the Maker at this point.  
  
"The bees must've gone somewhere." Lavellan goes on, frowning as she looks around. "Where could they have gone? This is important. There is a worldwide bee shortage."  
  
"I'm sure it is." Dorian attempts, "Really. I'd be happy to discuss the endangered nature of the honey bee with you at a later time, love, but  _really_ \- there is a schedule and we are falling behind despite the fact that we have absolutely no obstacles in our way from achieving our  mission parameters. So if we could just take this conversation along with us as we move forward, that would be most  _grand_. Right Cassandra?"  
  
"Right." Cassandra says, and the woman is probably just acting out of reflex at this point.  
  
Honestly. Bees. Giant bears in the middle of military bases. Mercenaries stung to death. Zombies coming out of supposedly sunken labs. It's all absolutely bloody ridiculous.  
  
And to top it all off, a leader who gets distracted by weeds growing out of cracks in the cement.  
  
Lavellan slowly starts to move forward, frowning the entire time as she contemplates bees.  
  
Dorian has no idea what he signed up for, but he supposes it's better than time traveling dickheads.  
  
-  
  
Cullen looks between Dorian, Lavellan, and Sera and internally cringes.  
  
"It's always you three." Cullen says, except it isn't always these three, it's just always Lavellan in combination with some other two people. Dorian and Sera usually being those other two, but not always in combination with each other. It just so happens whenever it is Dorian, Lavellan, and Sera in combination it tends to be worse than when it's anyone else.  
  
"No one's hurt terribly this time, at least. Give us that much credit." Dorian says.  
  
"There was blood." Cullen points out, with a glance down at Lavellan's knuckles.  
  
"Hahren healed it." Lavellan replies, looking only a little guilty and a little bit embarrassed to be here. Really, there's no point in calling her up here for disciplinary action. She's the leader of the Inquisition and what-not. But she's also a soldier of this army and he's her Commander and there are regulations and it's just a giant mess of a thing that Cullen really can't explain or understand despite how many times Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana have told him this speech.  
  
"About that," Cullen starts, "He's still unlicensed and we still have very little idea of where he's come from."  
  
Lavellan frowns, "I trust hahren."  
  
"That makes one of us." Sera mutters. "He's a  _prick_."  
  
Before the two of them can get into it, Cullen clears his throat.  
  
"That aside - you set the lab on fire." Cullen reminds them. "You put it out, I know. But you also broke the emergency axe out and there was blood and glass."  
  
"It  _said_ break in case of emergency."  
  
Cullen closes his eyes and breathes.  
  
"Which," Lavellan goes on after a pause, sounding completely sincere and if this were anyone - anyone at all - else, Cullen would think they were bullshitting him or messing with his head. But it's  _her_ and she's actually sincere about all of it and it makes it so much harder for him to be upset with her. "When you think about it, is extremely dangerous, Cullen. Glass in a fire? You can't see where you're going! What if you step on some of it! They really ought to change that case to something easier to open. There was glass on my hands! Why did I need an axe? Why didn't they put some water or fire repellant in that case? That seems very  _odd_ , Cullen."  
  
Dorian and Sera are snickering and Cullen just wishes they could go one day without something like this happening. One day, that's all he asks for.  
  
"I don't make the regulations." Cullen says, "Please just explain to me how the fire started."  
  
Sera turns to Lavellan who turns to Dorian.  
  
"Well." Dorian says after a moment, crossing his arms and giving Cullen what Cullen knows Dorian calls his "charming" grin, which is, according to the man, slightly more amiable and playful than his "seductive" smile. "It started with  _elfroot_."  
  
-  
  
"The Inquisition does not hire thugs." Cassandra says as she watches the Chargers unload. "Lavellan, we are attempting to portray ourselves as a respectable peace keeping force."  
  
"I think they're nice." Lavellan replies, gazing off at a moth that's managed to find its way into the cargo bay, lazily swiping at the air near it. "The Iron Bull seems nice. I like Krem. Also they have some elves among them and you know what the Inquisition needs, Cassandra? More elves. We're so underrepresented as it is. Her hair is so lovely,  _she's_ lovely. I can't wait to talk to her some more. She's older than me but then again most of you are so I guess that's nothing new. Have you met the Iron Bull yet? I think you two would get alone well. How come everyone gives me that same exact look whenever I talk? Is it because you're all older than me? No one younger than me gives me that look. I mean, Sera doesn't. Unless it's where I can't see her do it - "  
  
Cassandra tunes Lavellan out and turns back to glaring at the series of trucks unloading what are most likely illegal weaponry and other such things. She hopes that at the very least the mages are licensed. The paperwork is going to drown Josephine and Cullen. Never mind Leliana's work increase, when people start to talk.  
  
And a qunari. She's gone and recruited a qunari to their cause. A qunari spy. One who  _admits_ he's a spy.  
  
Cassandra sighs and pushes the heel of her palm against her hand.  
  
Lavellan rocks on her heels next to her, and Cassandra sometimes feels like the elf is laughing at her - at the world - without ever opening her mouth. The moth has landed on Lavellan's nose.  
  
"As you say, Lavellan." Cassandra sighs, and winces when she sees that two of the latest trucks are nothing but kegs and boxes of wine. "Perhaps you should go and inform Cullen of their arrival, if he hasn't already been told. I am sure he would like to speak with this Iron Bull."  
  
" _The_ Iron Bull." Lavellan repeats, "The article is part of the name. Okay, I'll go."  
  
They both watch as the moth slowly flutters away, before Lavellan turns and walks in the general direction of the barracks. Cassandra doubts she'll actually find Cullen before noon, when they meet for lunch. At which point, she's certain Cullen would have already found the Iron Bull.  
  
"I." Cassandra says to Leliana who's been quietly laughing at her back from the shadows of a forklift for the past ten minutes, "Am getting too old for this."  
  
"Nonsense, Cassandra. You'll be too old when you're dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So that makes it,” Krem thinks, “What? One raccoon family, three groups of possums, an entire cloud of bats, six cats, and seven nugs.”

“It’s cool.” Sera says when Lavellan asks her about the bow. “I mean. It’s like – a signature, yeah? A bit of a personal touch?”

“It’s inconvenient.” Dorian mutters from behind them as they wait in line at the cafeteria. “You almost took my eye out swinging that thing around.”

“Says the _mage_ who sets shit on _fire_.” Sera says, kicking back at him. “I mean, it’s intimidating, yeah? Woosh! Arrow to the face! That says something.”

“How come no one uses guns?” Lavellan muses, “No one I know and work with personally uses guns. Why? I mean – Varric has Bianca. But no one knows what exactly Bianca is.”

“Modified crossbow.” Dorian throws in. “And apparently, the love of Varric’s life. Strange, but somehow it works.”

“Cole uses daggers. Cassandra has a sword.” Lavellan pauses a bit to look baffled. “She has a _sword_.”

“Vivienne has a _glowing_ sword she conjures out of thin air.” Dorian points out.

“Cullen has a sword. Bull has a giant axe.” Sera nudges Lavellan forward in the line. “Why do none of us use actual updated weaponry?”

“Says the girl who throws balls of fire and lightning at people.” Sera snorts. “Don’t compare me to the demon.”

“But Cole isn’t a demon.” Lavellan mutters as she ladles watery soup into her plastic bowl. “And I’m very confused as to how this all works. We use grenades but we also have hand and a half swords and claymores. Axes. Large axes.”

“Don’t forget Krem’s giant rock that he tied to a large tree branch.” Dorian adds on, bypassing the soup for a wilted looking salad. “Or that plastic banana you nailed to a piece of wood. Or that large plastic wheel of cheese you attached a handle too.”

“Or the fake flowers you turned into a flower crown.” Sera says, going straight for the dessert section, even as Dorian attempts to throw some garlic bread onto her tray in an attempt to balance out her diet.

Lavellan frowns as Dorian nudges her along, mechanically putting things onto her tray.

“We have a blacksmith’s.” She mutters. “Is this why they keep saying that the Inquisition is dated? I thought we were rather neat, really. But now I’m questioning it.”

“It’s about time, truly.” Dorian says, “You must have run out of other things to question.”

-

“Remind me how you found this place, again?” Krem says as he steadies her by the waist, squinting up as dust floats down from the ceiling. He hopes to the Maker that it isn’t mold. Or a deadly and dormant plague. Maker, with their luck it probably is.

“Hahren told me to walk until I found it.” She replies, as if listening to bald elves who come out of nowhere at the right time is something everyone does. As if listening to bald magical elves who pop out of nowhere and give cryptic advice is a completely sane and logical thing to do, without question.

For someone who asks so many questions she doesn’t seem to be very _questioning_.

Lavellan coos and Krem hears an alarming hiss before Lavellan squeals.

“It’s a _racoon!”_ She exclaims, pulling out a large and disturbingly hissing ball of matted fur from the ceiling. She gasps, “And it has _babies!”_

“Maker’s breath, I hope you’ve had your shots.” Krem mutters as she holds the thing to her chest, picking out babies with her free hand.

Krem stares at the raccoon who stares back at him before reaching out and holding her babies to her breast.

It’s like Lavellan is holding a hairy baby that’s holding hairier and smaller babies.

“So that makes it,” Krem thinks, “What? One raccoon family, three groups of possums, an entire cloud of bats, six cats, and seven nugs.”

“Don’t forget the geese.” Lavellan says. “I like the geese. They let me play with their babies.”

The geese are terrors who’ve nearly severed at least fourteen different people’s tendons.

“Amazing.” Krem mutters.

“Isn’t it? Skyhold’s just full of life! I wonder why it was ever abandoned. I wouldn’t _ever_ want to leave.” Lavellan replies, missing his point entirely.

There’s a giant tree growing out of the middle of the landing pad. It has _wasps_.

“Maybe Skyhold killed its last owner.” Krem mumbles, politely smiling when Lavellan angles the raccoons at him for a better look. She’s already giving them names and playing with their little hands. “Maybe these raccoons are descendants of the raccoons who probably ripped the last inhabitants to shreds. Maybe we’re all just the white people in the beginning of a horror flick. Except I’m not white and I’m going to live to tell this sorry tale.”

“Hm?” Lavellan hums, blinking at him, raccoon paws curled around her fingers as he helps her off the chair.

“Nothing.” Krem sighs. “Don’t mind me. Just the last sane mind of Skyhold talking to myself and narrating my own downfall here.”

-

“A _deer_. A giant _deer_.” Cullen repeats, staring, a little bit awed, mostly terrified as he stands outside the overhang where they’ve been storing their vehicles.

And true to form, there is a giant, horned stag standing in an empty space between Cassandra’s truck and Leliana’s motorcycle.

It stares at him before snorting and stomping its hoof.

“Where does one even find a giant _deer?”_ Varric says as he stares at it, a good two feet behind Cullen.

“He found me.” Lavellan says, startling them both. “I was taking a walk around the lake and he saved me from falling in the deep end. He’s very nice. I like him. Do we have anything I can feed him? Hahren gave me an apple but I think he needs more than that.”

Cullen puts his face in his hands and breathes.

“Good luck with that, Curly.” Varric says and Cullen knows that this is going to end up in a book. It’s going to be terrible.

“What do you intend to do with him?” Cullen asks, “You can’t keep him in the parking lot.”

“I’m trying to find a room for him.” Lavellan says, “I want to share with him, but he won’t fit through the doorway, so I’m trying to figure out how to put in a request for a tent so I can sleep out here instead.”

Maker’s _breath_.

“No.” Cullen says, putting his foot down in what is probably the first active decision he’s made since joining the Inquisition thus far.

He didn’t even get to choose their uniform colors.

“You are not sleeping outside with a giant deer.” Cullen says, turning to her and internally wincing at the look of utter disappointment on her face. “It’s not safe. The nights are cold. And it most likely would not be very restful.”

Lavellan frowns at her feet – bare, _again_ ,and Cullen needs to figure out _how_ she keeps losing her shoes and _why_ , but he can only fight one battle at a time, and the more pressing one at the moment is convincing her to sleep indoors because they are in the middle of the bloody Frostbacks where temperatures can dip below zero with wind chill.

Cullen closes his eyes and sighs.

“Perhaps we could have a stable built near the kennels.” He says. It would be a drain on resources, but they can’t just keep a deer in their parkinglot.

Lavellan looks up at him with so much hope in her eyes Cullen feels as though he might have to build this stable with his own bare hands if it comes down to it. He tries to tell himself it’s because she’s young and deserves nice things because they ask so much from her – they ask her life from her, a stable isn’t too much to ask for in return. But truly he’s always just been terribly weak to those sorts of looks. Leliana says he has a soft and bleeding heart.

Josephine says he’s nice.

Cassandra just laughs at him.

Lavellan fidgets in place for a few seconds before darting forward and throwing her arms around him, small and boney and practically electric with her excitement before bouncing away and throwing herself onto the stag’s back, laughing with delight.

Cullen sighs and goes to find Josephine to make this happen.

If this is anything of a trend, they’ll probably need someone who knows their way around animals to tend to the creature as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are all car so loud?" She asks, "Because if they are, I can see why our enemies always know we're coming. Also, I got a little sick." Lavellan kicks her heel against the ground. "I didn't like it very much. Does that go away? Like getting seasick? Do you get car-legs like you get sea-legs?"

"You took the Inquisitor to an underground _rave_." Cullen repeats, incredulous as Stitches brushes past him to start - well, stitching a cut over Krem's temple.  
  
"She'd never been to a rave before." Rocky says from where he's lying down, bag of ice over his head. Really, he ought to be stuck in a tub of ice, considering the sheer amount of bruising he has, but Cullen isn't in the mood to be kind or sympathetic for this sort of thing.  
  
"You took her to a underground rave." He repeats, _again_.  
  
"Starting to sound like a broken record there, Commander." Krem says, looking a little sleepy and completely unfazed as Stitches does his work. "Besides, it's fine. She had fun, we had fun, the Chief had fun."  
  
Dalish titters from where she's perched on top of a cabinet - apparently upset that they didn't bring her along -  
  
("You hate raves!" Skinner says as Dalish climbs onto the metal cabinet, face set in a firm frown.  
  
"I know, but I would have liked to have been invited anyway. You just like her better than me because she's shiny and _new_."  
  
"We don't like the Inquisitor better than you, Dalish." Krem says, holding what looks like women's underwear to a large bleeding cut on his temple. "We like you and we like her. _Mostly_ we like you and we're cooing over her like she's a baby animal. With a glowing hand that can spit out demons.")  
  
"He had _something_ , alright." Rocky groans.  
  
"Where's Grim?" Cullen asks because in his experience having at least one Charger out of sight can lead to terrible things.  
  
The others exchange a glance before sniggering together.  
  
"Oh, he's currently in the process of having some fun."  
  
Dalish giggles and makes a crude gesture from the top of the cabinet.  
  
Cullen has a flash of panic - "And where's the Inquisitor?"  
  
"Oh, no. Not together. Not having fun _together_." Krem says, jolting a little before yelping when Stitches whacks him for it. "Ow. Sorry, Stitches. Anyway, she's not with him. We took her to a rave for the sole purpose of giving her the experience of a mosh pit, nothing more, nothing less."  
  
"She's gone to tell Cole about it, I think." Dalish throws in. "She likes Cole. Thinks he's sweet. I like him, too. He _is_ sweet. Such a charming boy. I bet _he_ would have invited me if he were going to a rave."  
  
"Just let it go, Dalish." Rocky groans, "Just let it go and keep your squeaky voice down for five minutes, I'm _begging_ you here."  
  
"My voice isn't squeaky!"  
  
"No, but it trills like a songbird."  
  
"Is she alright?" Cullen asks before they can get off topic.  
  
"Is who alright?"  
  
"The _Inquisitor_."  
  
"What? Oh, yeah, she's fine, why wouldn't she be?"  
  
Cullen waves an arm around the room. Krem with bruises, a busted lip and a gash over his eye. Rocky as one giant bruise. Skinner is walking with a limp. Stitches has a bump on his head that makes Cullen question if he really should be the one performing medical assistance at this very moment.  
  
"Oh, no. Yeah. We didn't get this at the mosh pit." Krem says.  "Don't worry, by the time we got these, we'd already sent her running off back to the base."  
  
"Do I want to know _where_ you did get them?" Cullen asks, wary and a little bit anxious.  
  
Krem and Stitches exchange a look.  
  
"I'm sure that by tomorrow morning you'll know more than you want to about the entire event." It's troubling that they call it an event.  
  
"Oh, good." Cullen sighs, already wishing it were the day after tomorrow instead. "I'm looking forward to it. As I always do when these events occur."  
  
-  
  
"I can read." Lavellan says, slowly, turning the book around in her hands. "Just not very fast. Or well. In this language." Lavellan squints. "I'm fairly certain that this is common."  
  
"It's Ferelden but close enough." Varric says. "How'd you read my book again?"  
  
"Very slowly and out loud." Lavellan says, "We're all homeschooled, you know. I'm very good at art. And sewing. My winter project was embroidering ten sets of spring dresses. I even got to keep one of them! I miss that dress. It was very pretty. Some of my _best_ needlework."  
  
"Uh-huh." Varric says, turning the book right side up for her. "Maybe we should start with the basics."  
  
"I know my letters." Lavellan protests. "Really. I'm just a bit slow. I'm much better at elven. I was the best in my age group." Lavellan leans in to whisper, "I was better at it than some of the hahren, too."  
  
"You better than this hahren?" Varric jerks his thumb in the direction of Solas' room.  
  
" _This_ hahren knows a lot more than the hahren of my clan." Lavellan answers, "So, no. But I'm going to get him to teach me. Just watch."  
  
"Good luck with that." Varric laughs, "Doesn't seem the teaching type. Preaching, yeah, teaching, not so much."  
  
"Don't be silly, Varric. All preachers are teachers. You just have to listen for the lesson."  
  
-  
  
"I don't think I like cars very much." Lavellan says, looking pensive as she meanders her way through various groups of soldiers, appearing to talk to no one in particular. Cullen carefully steps to the side and out of what he thinks might be her path.  
  
"Did Cassandra take you for a drive?" He asks when she eventually wanders around in a little circle to arrive at he left elbow, mouth twisted into a small frown.  
  
"Yes." Lavellan says. "We went to talk to a horse master. I like horses. He gave me a Ferelden forder. You're from Ferelden, right Cullen? Is that a good horse? I think he's a nice horse, he kissed my cheek. I don't like cars. They're very _loud_. Everyone must have heard us coming from _miles_ off! I like horses and deer better. They're quiet. They're better for hunting with. Also gasoline smells bad. I don't know why you people go around in cars and trucks and stuff. I have two feet and they work just fine."  
  
Lavellan bends down, "And you have two feet, too."  
  
"It's a distance thing." Cullen says, "It takes a long time to walk from here to wherever we need to get. It's faster in a car."  
  
Lavellan hums and nods, accepting this, "I still like deer better."  
  
"Deer and horses can only carry one or two people at a time. And they get tired." Cullen says, "Depending on the vehicle, you can fit up to eight people and it takes them much longer before they need to refuel."  
  
Lavellan hums again. "Okay. Do I have to learn to drive one?"  
  
"Eventually, yes." Cullen isn't looking forward to that. He's hoping that the duty of teaching her doesn't fall to him. With his luck, it probably will be, though.  
  
"Are all car so loud?" She asks, "Because if they are, I can see why our enemies always know we're coming. Also, I got a little sick." Lavellan kicks her heel against the ground. "I didn't like it very much. Does that go away? Like getting seasick? Do you get car-legs like you get sea-legs?"  
  
"It helps to sit in the middle and look forward, I'm told." Cullen says, sympathetic. He tends to get motion sickness a lot, especially now that he's off lyrium. "There's medicine you can take for nausea."  
  
It suddenly strikes him that maybe she wasn't meandering so much as maybe she was dizzy.  
  
"Do you need help getting back to your room?"  
  
"No." Lavellan sighs, "I'm okay, now. But I had to get out of the car and throw up and I don't think Cassandra likes me very much." Lavellan looks down at her feet and wiggles her bare toes. "I must have looked so _stupid_."  
  
Cullen touches her shoulder. "No. Plenty of people get car-sick. Varric does."  
  
"She _hates_ Varric." Lavellan mourns.  
  
"For reasons that have nothing to do with being car-sick." Cullen reassures her. "I promise that Cassandra does not hate you or see you as any less for being car sick. If anything, she probably feels guilty for not being able to help you and for bringing you along in the first place."  
  
"You mean it?" Lavellan asks, looking up at him. Cullen nods.  
  
"I do. Now why don't you go lie down?"  
  
-  
  
"What's that?" Lavellan asks, pointing to Josephine's tablet. "No, no, _wait_ , what's _that_ one?" She points to one of the large screens, "No, that one first, what's _that_? What does it do? Where does it come from? What's it made of? Who made it? When? _Why_?"  
  
She points at one of the giant golems that they've been attempting to reconstruct.  
  
Josephine blinks and doesn't know where to start. Solas touches Lavellan's shoulder and whispers something to her in elven. She rocks on her heels, lips pressed shut before eventually  nodding and folding her arms behind her back.  
  
"Please continue." Solas says, gesturing for Josephine to continue with her introductions.  
  
"She's Dalish." Leliana says, later, as Josephine frantically tries to figure out how much Lavellan does and doesn't know about technology and the world around them and how she's going to somehow catch her up to the twenty first century. "They spend their lives running from outskirts to outskirts, always on the fringes of the world. Why would she need to know what a tablet is? Or a golem? I bet she could kill, gut, and skin a boar faster than anyone here."  
  
"I just - it's so. It's _strange_ to think that there's someone out there who doesn't know what a touch-screen is. Or internet."  
  
Leliana laughs, "I'm fairly sure she has a basic idea of what the internet is. She's probably just used to interacting with it on a desktop. One of those old clunky ones that were perfectly square, with wires. She knows what a radio is, if that makes you feel better."  
  
Josephine crosses that off the list. "It's just that the Dalish are so foreign, it's hard to know anything. What to say, how to act, what to do."  
  
"The Dalish are the basis for _everything_ we have, Josephine." Leliana reminds her, "Besides, Josie, no two Dalish are the same anyway. Consider each clan it's own little country."  
  
Josephine groans and puts her head into her hands.  
  
"She also knows what a telephone is, by the way. If you'd like, I can send some of my Dalish agents to talk to her for you." Leliana says, taking the pen and scratching out a few more lines on Josephine's list. "You're really overthinking this, you know. It's not like you're the only one who can explain things to her. There's Solas. And Varric has some experience handling young, impressionable, Dalish girls."  
  
"That sounds so very off putting when you say it like that."  
  
"It _does_ , doesn't it?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, look, that show you both like is on. The one with the ninja.”

“I’m good at some things. Like magic.” Lavellan says as Josephine coaches her through using a computer once again. “And knitting. And hunting. And fishing. And poison. I’m good at poison.” Lavellan hums, squinting at the computer screen’s glare. “If you ever need to give someone terrible cramps I know how to do it. Also how to fake death.”

“I’m sure.” Josephine says, smiling as Lavellan nervously clicks the mouse and pulls up an internet browser. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Does it matter which one I pick?” Lavellan asks, “This one has nice colors, but I also like the fox of fire.”

“Just don’t use internet explorer.” Josephine says, “And you can pick your preference from there. You can just type into the address bar, up here. That one.”

Lavellan nervously prods at the keys. “This would probably go faster if I could type, yes? And um. Understand common.”

This is true.

“We’ll work our way through it.” Josephine assures her.”Knitting?”

“And sewing. And embroidery. I had the neatest stitches of my age group.” Lavellan says, closing chrome and opening up a word processor to practice typing. She’s good at matching letters but she doesn’t really know what any of it means. It’s more of a picture recognition for her on a small scale. Lavellan has amazing eyesight and an uncanny attention for details. “I had to leave it behind when I was sneaking into the Conclave, but I had a really, really pretty dress that I spent ages working on and everyone was jealous because of the flowers I embroidered on it. I saved up a lot for that thread, you know.”

“You can make new ones.” Josephine says, “And you can always buy new clothes, too.”

As poor and ramshackle as the Inquisition is, so far, she’s sure that they have enough to supply Lavellan with a decent wardrobe. It’s the least they can do. They aren’t even _paying_ the poor girl. And she’s tossing her life on the line for them without question or much complaint at every turn.

“I could use some underwear.” Lavellan says after a pause, “That would be nice.”

Josephine refrains from asking if she’s been wearing the same underwear all this time.

“Of course we could get you some.” Josephine says, instead, “And some needle and thread, if you’d like. We could use some help with sewing and repairs to clothes. The importance of good tailoring is a little underestimated during wartimes.”

-

“They’re so fun.” Lavellan gapes, awed as Varric nudges her back from the small television set. “Amazing. Just amazing. Wow. This is so much better than radio. You can see things! No wonder you shems are always inside! You can see _everything_!”

“We’ve ruined her.” Varric mourns. “Taken a pure and perfectly good kid who liked to be outdoors and do healthy things and turned her into this.”

“Look! Look! I’ve been there!” Lavellan says, pointing at the television. “You can go there just by staring at the screen! You don’t get mosquito bites or anything, you could just sit here. That’s so amazing! Is this why shems also know so much? Is this how you know so much? Do dwarves have this too?”

“Yeah, we have television, too.” Varric says. “Sit away from that would you? You’ll ruin your eyes.”

“Probably the best thing about you, to be honest.” Sera tacks on. “Creepy elf-vision and shit.”

“You have elf eyes, too.” Varric says.

“Yeah, but hers are weirder. She sees way too much. Ridiculous, really. I mean, who even notices weird stuff like what color a bird’s feathers are? No one.”

“But how else are you supposed to know what clan a bird comes from if you can’t see the feathers? How do you do it?”

“No one sends _messenger_ birds anymore.” Sera snorts. “That’s what phones are for.”

“But phones only work in certain places.” Lavellan points out. “You need electricity for phones. And telephone poles. And radio only works a certain distance. And Morse code and signal fires only work if you’re close by.”

“Andraste, it’s like you came out of the friggin’ dark ages.” Sera throws her arms up. “This is why the Dalish suck.”

Lavellan opens her mouth to argue but Varric quickly shuts them both up -

“Hey, look, that show you both like is on. The one with the ninja.”

-

“I don’t even know how you got past the guards.” Dorian says.

“I crawled through the air ducts, slid out and hung from the ceiling grate, then strangled them one by one, picking up with my thighs and hanging them until they stopped struggling, then lowering them back on the ground.” Lavellan says, “Standard tactics for getting rid of large amounts of shems. Pick off the ones at the fringes with that. Then make the ones towards the center turn around with a distraction – like letting the last one you strangle make a bit of noise. Then you get in the middle where it gets hard for them to use guns and stuff and you can use them against each other.”

“You terrify me.” Dorian sighs, watching as she kicks her legs dangling off the edge of the truck’s bed, wiggling her toes. “You absolutely terrify me. I don’t even know why people think you’re so _nice_. You’re a walking assassin. No wonder everyone thought you killed the Divine.”

“I wouldn’t.” Lavellan protests, turning to him. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“I know. But no _wonder_.” Dorian pats her hand. “I am so lucky that you like me.”

“Of course I like you.” Lavellan blinks. “You’re Dorian. Why wouldn’t I like you? You’re my friend. You’re nice to me. You give me candy and let me drink with you even though I don’t like wine that much. And you make a very nice pillow.”

Dorian rolls his eyes and lies down on the truck bed, grimacing at the feel of the scratchy tarp. It smells a little like the dogs they bring everywhere.

“I wonder who is the smarter one in this relationship quiet often you know. And it should come as no surprise to anyone that the answer is not always me, as it normally is.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A little sunshine never hurt anyone.” Blackwall grunts from where he’s working on the truck’s engine, while Cassandra – like the terrifying woman she is – holds the car up.

“I’m gonna die. This is it. I’m just gonna die.” Sera concludes as she watches Lavellan’s tongue poke out of the corner of her mouth, goggles over her eyes. “Fuck. Fuck, I knew I should’ve let another Jenny take this stupid fucking – “

“Sh.” Lavellan reaches out and blindly runs a hand down Sera’s face, patting at Sera’s mouth. “You’ll scare it.”

“Good. It deserves a scarin’.” Sera mutters. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“You’re fast. If it escapes you can help me catch it.” Lavellan replies, hopping from foot to foot. “It’s _hatching_.”

“Fucked. So fucked.” Sera hits her head against the wall, listening to the pleasant thumps as Lavellan softly squeals into her hands. “We’re gonna die.”

“It’s just a baby, Sera.” Lavellan replies. “How dangerous can it be? Come here! It looks so cute!”

“I hate Bull. I hate that fucking piece of gray tattooed _di-“_

Lavellan lets out a sharp squeak and there’s a loud cracking sound from the direction of the impromptu nest Lavellan and Dalish threw together when some scouts brought back eggs.

 _Dragon eggs_.

Andraste’s fucking _tits_.

And this fucker wants Sera to help her _round them up_ in case they _escape_.

“Mythal, they’re beautiful.” Lavellan coos.

“You hated their mom.” Sera points out.

“Their mother was incredibly mean and rude and – and – and she threw me into a wall!” Lavellan protests. “These ones are cute and small and make little baby noises, I love them. I _love them_.”

Lavellan does not use the word _love_ lightly and Sera wonders if the Inquisition can support playing mommy to three newly hatched dragons.

“I hate Bull.” Sera repeats, because this is all his fucking fault. “I hope they take out his other eye.”

-

“Electricity run objects are for the weak.” Lavellan declares as she skips out into the wilderness looking about as delighted as a child in a candy stre. It’s indecent, really. Dorian ducks in time to dodge one of her shoes as she scrambles up a tree, as nimble as a monkey or a mountain goat in this stupid terrain.

“I am an archivist and a scholar.” Dorian yells up at her, “I researched _time_ magic and had fundamental breakthroughs. I reversed an entire time spell by the seat of my pants in _two minutes_. I am an altus from the house of Pavus of Minrathous. _I am not a camper_. I do not _forage_ or – or – or _rough it out_.”

“Join the fucking club.” Sera mutters. “I’m getting _hives_.”

“So this is grass.” Varric mutters from the broken down truck. “Yup. Not any better than the shit at Kirkwall.”

Lavellan woops and sends down a small rain of leaves onto Dorian’s head.

“I am a _researcher_.” Dorian continues to yell in what he thinks is her general direction.

“I’m a fucking urban warfare specialist.” Sera adds on, yelling and shaking her fist at Lavellan’s direction. “Urban. Fuckin’. Warfare. That means – buildings. Steel. Glass. Pavement. Mobs. Riots. Demonstrations. Public opinion polls. DIY explosives and solutions to tear gas. Not pine cones and starting fires with sticks and bird calls.”

As if to spite them, Lavellan trills out a long series of bird calls and laughs.

“A little sunshine never hurt anyone.” Blackwall grunts from where he’s working on the truck’s engine, while Cassandra – like the terrifying woman she is – holds the car up.

“We’ll be the first.” Varric says. “They’ll write books about it. It’ll be amazing.”

“Make sure she doesn’t break her neck.” Cassandra barks at them, “And that she doesn’t make any new – “ The woman pauses and makes a face around the word, “ _Friends_.”

Friends is a polite way of calling the strange menagerie of half-way feral and most likely rabid animals she’s somehow charmed into obeying her every unspoken whim and fancy.

“Shouldn’t it be her who’s looking after us?” Dorian mutters as he trudges off in the direction he thinks she might’ve run off to. “These are _new_ boots by the way. Brand new. Hand made. Absolutely lovely. And they’re incredibly supple. You _owe me_ for this.”

“They’ll add it to your paycheck.” Varric throws in. “Except you don’t have one. Why is that, Seeker? How come none of us has a paycheck? Not even hazard pay. Or insurance.”

“Looking awfully sketchy there.” Sera throws in. “Just asking for some lawsuits.”

“We are a rebel vigilante organization.” Cassandra snaps. “Who’s best chance of winning against Tevinter’s latest extremist just ran off into the woods at sunset. In the middle of undetermined territory with no back up. We have other things to worry about aside from lawsuits right now.”

-

“Guns are loud and they run out of bullets.” Lavellan says, looking a little young and painfully _wrong_ with the black, standard issue M-9.

“They’re fast and lethal.” Cullen says, and has to wonder about what the Dalish use because it’s not like they’re traveling centers of mass production. “If someone knows what they’re doing with it.”

“I don’t.”

“We’re going to fix that.”

“But they’re loud. And heavy.” Lavellan says, looking incredibly uncomfortable as she holds it, not really pointing it at anything. Her finger isn’t on the trigger and she’s really not even holding it properly. Just cradling it in her hands, careful with her fingers, like someone just placed a bomb or maybe a baby in her palms.

“All weapons are heavy.” Cullen says, and if he were a more poetic person, or perhaps someone with better words, he’d say something about all lives are heavy things, and the responsibility for them even heavier. Death is a weight just like life is, and he still doesn’t know which one is heavier. But he isn’t that person, not really – leave that to Solas and Leliana and Vivienne to be well spoken about such topics – so he just says, “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”

Because that is something he knows and it’s a sad truth, really. Cullen remembers a time when the weight of his Templar armor felt heavy and stifling and frightening. Because he felt small in it and because it meant that everything was real and he really could die. But now he misses the weight of the full set, and has to remind himself not to move with the same force he’d use wearing it. He feels too light, too free, now.

Lavellan nods and then shifts her hands to hold it.

“Like with my staff.” She says.

A gun will never have the grooves of her palms like her staff does, and a gun will probably never give her the same marks – scars and calluses' – like the staff. But it’s the same principle.

But she uses her staff to heal and to protect, to stop and to prevent. Guns just hurt.

“It feels so. Far away.” She says. Cullen agrees, which is why he tends to stick to his sword, even though it’s antiquated and incredibly impractical. It’s more personal that way. There’s probably something terribly wrong with him that he needs that closeness.

It seems too easy with a gun. From far away. Too fast. Too simple. Too little effort. Not enough thought.

“I know.” Cullen says, and nudges her to the side so he can show her the parts of her new weapon. He knows she won’t pick it first. She’ll always go for her magic, first. Then her fists and her staff. Her knives and whatever blunt instruments she can find.

He knows just by knowing her that the gun will be the last thing she ever draws. The last one she uses in her current arsenal.

And the day she files a report and he reads about the bullets used from this gun’s cartridge is going to be a sad and terrifying day indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ever think of having kids?” Bull says, turning to glance and watch their little boss over his shoulder.

“Andraste’s – _damn it,_ warn a man, woman!” Dorian hisses, clutching at his chest as the eerie green lights blink at him. “Every time I think I’ve gotten used to you and that nothing can startle me, you pull something new out. Your _eyes_ glow in the goddamned _dark_.”

The eyes blink again and bob in the way that means she’s quietly laughing at him.

“All elf eyes glow in the dark, Dorian.” Then she waves her palm at him, “My hand does, too.”

“Which really should make night encounters so very interesting.” Dorian snorts, “You really ought to get that hand looked at by a doctor.”

“That’s what I have hahren for.”

“Is Solas a doctor?”

“He’s a hahren.”

“And does that mean he went to medical school, completed it, and earned a degree?”

“No.”

“Then he’s not a doctor, he’s a walking malpractice suit, and you really  need to find someone who’s licensed in this sort of thing.”

Lavellan lets out an affronted huff.

“You may trust his backwater hedgewitch knowledge,” Dorian continues, “But for the peace of my fragile, fragile mind – which you’ve been startling every other day for the past month – find a real doctor.”

The green lights roll. “ _Fine_.”

Dorian snorts. “You sound like such a _teenager_.”

“I’m _twenty one_.”

“A child.” Dorian bemoans, flinging his hands up, “Practically a child.”

Dorian yelps when Lavellan gives him a hard shove.

“Unfair! I can’t see anything other than your eyes.”

Lavellan hums, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Then closes her eyes.

“You sneaky little brat.”

-

“She’s found candy.” Blackwall says, “In particular, she’s found jawbreakers. Do we have dental yet?”

Cassandra closes her eyes and prays for patience.

“No. We have not figured out dental yet.” Josephine says. “Where did she get candy on a military base?”

She hears Blackwall shrugs. “There are a lot of civilians on this base.”

Point.

Lavellan is – eccentric enough running on her own strange unending battery of energy and curiosity and _pep_. Cassandra’s had to dissuade her from taking apart two motorcycles, testing the electric fence, taking apart a sink, and playing with a functional tazer.

She doesn’t want to know how this goes with the girl on a sugar high.

Just watching Lavellan make her way around their rather small and understaffed base makes Cassandra’s legs hurt. She meanders her way through the base like a drunk bee. Her path is one large tangled knot. And her reasons for backtracking and meandering make Cassandra’s head spin. She’s not quite sure if Lavellan is doing it on purpose or not.

Either she is an extremely talented spy or she’s just that – _flighty_.

Regardless of which, it is terrifying and Cassandra leaves that puzzle to other minds. Leliana, mostly. Perhaps Bull might have an idea. She spends enough time with him that he probably has some theory.

On one hand, Cassandra is immensely thankful that the man has taken her under his wing and is effectively distracting her from getting into trouble by keeping an eye on her. As much as Cassandra feels it is her duty – as she is the one who takes responsibility for Lavellan’s actions to the world, as she is the one who set her free, as she is the one who convinced Lavellan to work with them – to watch over her, there are only so many hours in a single day.

On the other hand -

 _The Iron Bull is a terrible fucking influence_.

“It is most likely the Bull.” Cassandra says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“True.” Blackwall agrees. “I’m fairly certain that their medic keeps sweets on hand. Not sure if it’s meant to be a joke when he offers them after treatment. And she has fast fingers.”

“She’s also good at getting people to give her things without actually manipulating them at all.” Leliana throws in from where she’s examining one of their maps, calculating movements for Cullen who – unfortunately for him – is in charge of discipline and has been attempting to figure out ways to discipline their Herald in ways she would understand but not resent. Cassandra does not envy him that role of disciplinarian.

Lavellan has a terrifyingly _sad_ look. Cullen deserves some credit for even withstanding that look as he does.

Lesser men and women would crumble the second Lavellan’s mouth twitches.

Cassandra mostly deals with it by _not looking_.

Cullen looks at it head on. That takes a certain amount of mettle that Cassandra respects.

“I’ll talk to Bull.” Cassandra says. “Where is Lavellan now?”

“Climbing rafters in the warehouse.” Blackwall replies. “She’s good at it.”

“And you just _left_ her there?” Josephine gasps.

“She’s alright.” Blackwall says, a little sheepish. “Besides, the Chargers were keeping an eye on her. That girl is probably the most looked after lass in all of Thedas.”

-

“Spit that out.” Cassandra says and Lavellan sulks.

“It’s just _water_.” She mumbles, but she spits the snow out anyway.

“Don’t.” Cassandra says without turning around when Lavellan reaches out for some leaves. Lavellan kicks a rock.

Cassandra is just like the hahren back home. Worse, she’s like her _mama_ e.Like she has eyes on the back of her head. She can always tell what she’s doing without even looking and Lavellan hopes she learns how to do that someday.

Still.

“It wouldn’t kill me.” Lavellan mutters, turning in the direction of a bird.

“No.” Cassandra says, and Lavellan sighs before following in Cassandra’s footsteps, carefully placing her feet in the tracks Cassandra left behind. Cassandra and the others walk ahead and it’s not like they’re in a terrible rush so Lavellan thinks it’s okay if she falls behind a little.

Cassandra’s feet are bigger, and she’s wearing boots. The treads look pretty. Lavellan wiggles her own foot in the plain boots she’s wearing. They don’t make _Solas_ wear boots.

Lavellan’s feet are just as sturdy as _his_ but no one believes her.

Ridiculous.

She’s walked over worse than a little _snow_.

Cassandra’s footsteps are farther apart because she’s taller, too. Lavellan ends up half-hopping from footstep to footstep. But that gets a little boring because she finds a rhythm so she starts jumping into Bull’s footsteps, too, which adds something of a challenge, and then carefully following onto Dorian’s.

“Ever think of having kids?” Bull says, turning to glance and watch their little boss over his shoulder.

Cassandra snorts. “Why bother? There’s the entire Inquisition.” Cassandra jerks her thumb at Lavellan. “And this one.”

Dorian snickers.

“I’m including you as part of the _this one_.” Cassandra says. “You encourage her. _Put it down_.”

Dorian and Bull turn around and Lavellan frowns before dropping the handful of snow she had close to her mouth.

Lavellan makes a face but gamely goes back to – whatever it is she’s doing.

“You are a terrifying woman.” Dorian says. “I am so very glad you’re on our side.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s silly. You’re a hahren. You teach. You heal.” She says. “No matter what I call you there is hahren in you. So I should just call you hahren.”

“On the off-chance that we just _happen_ to run into a high-dragon nest, what are the protocols for such a thing? In the rare, exceedingly unlikely event that we do. Hypothetically. Of course.”

Cassandra eyes Dorian, “Of course. _Hypothetically_. You are asking me _because_?”

“Because you come from a line of dragon slayers? Because I’ve seen you punch bears and live? Because you can lift a truck with one hand? Because you seem like the sort who knows how to _not die_?”

Cassandra snorts. “Flatterer.”

Dorian smiles, “Only telling the basest truth.”

“I suggest you don’t let Lavellan see the eggs.” Cassandra says. “She’d want to _take them with her_.”

Dorian grimaces. “Any other tips on surviving a hypothetical situation such as that? Perhaps tips that would suggest what to do in case she couldn’t be persuaded against taking in the little bundles of destruction?”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. “Don’t ingest or touch the blood. It’s toxic.”

Dorian thinks he does a remarkable job of not saying or doing anything that would give himself away but Cassandra Pentaghast is not a woman to be trifled with. For all that she’s _terrible_ at Wicked Grace she’s got the senses of a bloodhound.

“It was _Bull_.” She hisses. “Wasn’t it?”

“Entirely his fault.” It’s not selling out if he’s telling the truth and if it’s the right thing to do, is it? It’s not selling out. “He’s the one who tripped on the dragon and everything.”

Cassandra snarls. It sends shivers down Dorian’s spine and this is probably the reason why mother didn’t want him to study abroad.

“I’m going to kill him.” She says. “How many eggs, how much blood did she touch, and _is anyone dead_?”

“Three eggs, not much before I got her to wash her mouth out, and it was a very close thing but twenty seconds shy of being official.” Dorian rattles off as Cassandra stands up and picks up her _sword_  – Dorian still can’t get over the fact that people still use _swords_ here, though he has to admit it came in handy against a _dragon_  – and stalks off in the direction of the barracks. “And I just killed our Qunari.” Dorian salutes in the general direction Cassandra is heading in. “Rest in pieces, the Iron Bull.”

-

“Don’t wander off.” Cassandra says, “Stay close to where we can hear you if something goes wrong. Don’t chase after nugs – they know the area better than you do. Don’t poke bee hives. Even if you want to study them. And stop playing with baby bears. We don’t have time to find a new camp ground.”

“Yes, Cassandra.” Lavellan answers, serene as she meanders away. Varric swears the kid is allergic to straight lines. He doesn’t think she could walk straight if someone were tugging her around on a rope.

“And come back before nightfall.” Cassandra yells after her slowly disappearing back. “You don’t have a flashlight.”

“Elves can see quite well in the dark.” Solas says. “Especially when trained to do it young, like the Dalish are.”

“There are only two elves here and if she gets lost we only have five flashlights.” Cassandra replies, “And we need three here with the rest of the camp. So that means only two people could go out looking for her.”

“Two people and a whole lotta forest doesn’t sound like great odds.” Varric says, “You guys really need to do something about your supply shortages.”

“I’m sorry, Varric, if only flashlights and tents and sleeping bags could grow on trees.” Cassandra deadpans. “It’s terribly hard being a vigilante organization fighting for survival.”

Solas snorts what could be a laugh and Varric rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to go follow the girl. I might die of exposure, but at least the company would be good.”

“Exposure to _what_? Fresh air? Grass?”

“I’m feeling light headed already.” Varric replies, waving as he goes off in Lavellan’s direction. He figures that if he walks in a straight line quick enough, he’ll make up for her meandering ways. She goes in a generally straight direction, just wobbles off to the sides here and there. “I think I can see Andraste. And a nice row of all the people I’ve killed. Waving to me like I’m at an airport.”

-

“Mother says I shouldn’t speak to strangers.” Lavellan says after a short pause. “But you’re an elf and you seem nice. Also you made my hand not feel bad so I think that’s a good thing. You would have killed me by now if you wanted to, right? You seem very strong. Also mother actually meant that I shouldn’t speak to strangers before tying them up and hanging them from a tree first. But there aren’t any good trees for that around here and I don’t have any rope. I could probably steal some but that would take time and I’d like to talk to you now.”

Solas blinks. “I can assure you that I have no plans to kill you at this moment.”

“Do you mean that, as of right now, you have no plans to kill me, or do you mean that you have plans that do not involve killing me right now, but possibly sometime in the future?”

“The former, rather than the latter.” Solas says, feeling amused despite the situation as she squints at him.

“Alright. I’m going to believe you.” She says before turning around in a small circle. Such a _peculiar_ child. It’s been quite some time since he last stumbled upon a Dalish settlement but he’s fairly certain that they aren’t like this. “Hello.”

“Hello.” He replies, watching her as she takes in her surroundings. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I? You made the mark better.” She looks at her hand, slowly curling her fingers. “Thank you for that. A favor is yours, should it be in my power to grant.” She dips her head in a bow. “Ma serannas, hahren.”

Solas holds up a hand, “Consider the favor resolved if you continue to use that mark to seal rifts.”

She beams at him. And seems to be waiting for -

“This is not like a clan, Lavellan. You are your own.” He says after a pause. “While I am older than you, I do not think it can be said that I am a hahren for you.”

“That’s silly. You’re a hahren. You teach. You heal.” She says. “No matter what I call you there is hahren in you. So I should just call you hahren.”

“I am not a teacher.”

“But you just taught me.” She points out. “And you helped me. And you wont kill me. You said.”

“That doesn't necessarily – “ Solas sighs. “Is there any way I could dissuade you from this line of thought?”

Lavellan seems to seriously consider it for a few minutes, frowning as she fiddles with her shirt. Ah, there is something to be said for the obedience of the young Dalish towards their elders. It is at times terrifying and at other times endearing, when it is not frustrating.

“No.” She says after a long pause. “I don’t _think_ so. Is this a test?”

“No.” Solas says, though he really should say _yes_. It could be, if he wished it. He does not. “I warn you, you do not want someone such as me as your hahren.”

Then again, it isn’t like she has much choice. There are no other older elves here that she knows. He’s certain that if they tried they could find a few under Leliana’s employ, but they are most likely scouts. It is unlikely any would be mages.

“But you’re nice.” She says, frowning. “And it’s _in_ you.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “In me?”

“The thing that makes _hahren_. Good hahren, I mean.” She says, “I can feel it. It’s in your face. You know things. And things know you. You’re spirit-touched. Those are the best hahren to have.” She beams. “You must know _so much_.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s one thing to ask her to let herself be held up as the voice of Andraste – who’s followers mutilated and burned Shartan – it’s another thing for them to ask her to erase the hard earned marks of her people and her gods.

The girl looks like she’s ready to climb the electric fence with her bare hands – no, she’s been ready to climb the electric fence since she woke up here, it was only a matter of Cassandra and Solas’ intervention that’s been keeping her from doing it – if they don’t let her out anytime soon. Varric doesn’t blame her. She’s spent her whole life roaming the great outdoors and now she’s been confined to a military base the size of Kirkwall.

Personally, Varric doesn’t really care about the fence and being kept inside the boundary of the base and stuff like that. He’s city, through and through. He writes _books_. He does _taxes_. He manages real estate. The outdoors are for people like Daisy.

He’s pretty sure that the fence is meant to keep people out, too.

There are a lot of people inside these walls that someone or other would like picked off. Lavellan being somewhere near the top of that list. Maybe somewhere slightly underneath the spymaster.

Not by much, either.

He doesn’t think Lavellan would be willing to listen to a _it’s for your own good_ speech. Daisy hated those. Said she’s heard enough of those in her life.

Truthfully, he doesn’t think she heard enough.

Either way, Varric isn’t going to lecture the kid for feeling like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin because it’s not his place. Frankly, he doesn’t think anyone here has that kind of authority except for maybe Solas because she seems to have adopted him as her own – somewhat against his will, from what Varric can tell.

But Varric isn’t a complete asshole like some people – _Seeker_  – would have you believe, so he’s not going to sit back and watch her climb an electrified fence without doing anything about it.

She’s a kid and the possible Herald of Andraste. She’s also nice and a fan of his books. And he’s willing to admit that his years with Hawke and the rest of their merry little band of misfits has given him a soft spot for kids like her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Varric says, watching her startle out of her contemplation of the fence. “It’d hurt. A lot.”

“I have magic, though.” She says, wiggling her fingers. “I could coat myself in electricity.”

“I’m not expert in this thing, but you’d probably short out the fence.” Varric says. “It’d take a while to repair.”

“Oh.” He watches her run through a series of events in her head. “That’s not a good thing. It’d take longer to repair than a regular fence, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably.” Varric says. “You could climb a tree.”

“I’ve climbed them all already.” She says. “There are only four.”

Five if you count the sad pine tree that seems to be listing to the side and ready to fall over. It’s a hazard but no one here has any idea what to do with it. It’s not like anyone here is a professional gardener.

“Impressive.” Varric says, because the four other trees are kind of majestic looking. “The view nice from up top?”

Lavellan beams and zips over to him – he didn’t think people could move that fast in real life without magic or wheels on their feet, but Lavellan seems bent on defying every single expectation of reality anyone has ever set up – and pulls out some water stained papers from her pocket.

“Yes!” She says and holds them out to him.

Varric blinks, taking them and folding them open. He smiles.

“These aren’t half bad, kid. What’d you use?”

“Snow for water.” She says, “And a bottle of ink I found in a storage shed. And my fingers.”

Makes him wonder what the kid could do with actual art supplies. “These are really good. Ever think of going professional?”

The guy who does the cover work for Varric’s books is a dick and he’s been wanting to find a replacement for him for _ages_.

-

“It’s probably not a good idea to send her to the Winter Ball.” Cullen says as Josephine and Leliana argue ways to get their spies and soldiers in. In the hypothetical situation in which they somehow manage to get invited and don’t screw it all up. “You realize that it is at _Halamshiral_? As in – the place where humans defeated and brutally oppressed her people?”

That gets him _looks_ and Cullen might not be the best at the _Game_ and he might not even like the Game, but he knows a few things.

Like – how you don’t send an someone who’s race has been brutally slaughtered and oppressed to a party hosted on the floor of the slaughterhouse.

“Didn’t the alienage there recently burn down?”

“Yes.” Josephine says, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much of a choice. If we get any invitation it will be for her. And to send anyone else would be to snub the Empress. Besides, she’s the only one who can gather any interest.”

“Besides, if needed we could sneak her in. One more elf serving at Halamshiral is nothing. The servants never get security checks.”

“One _Dalish_ elf?”

“Make up does wonders, Commander.” Leliana says.

Cullen and Josephine wince. Make up over the vallaslin? That isn’t a conversation anyone is going to want to have with her.

It’s one thing to ask her to let herself be held up as the voice of Andraste – who’s followers mutilated and burned Shartan – it’s another thing for them to ask her to erase the hard earned marks of her people and her gods.

“We have time.” Josephine says, “We haven’t gotten invitations yet, but we will. It won’t come to that.”

“And if it does?” Leliana asks.

“It won’t.” Josephine repeats. “I am the ambassador of the Inquisition and I will _get us in there_.”

Leliana smiles, quickly turning towards the endless slew of documents in front of them. Cullen breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

“The question then becomes, once we get in, what to wear.” Leliana says and Cullen wishes he were anywhere but _here_.

Anywhere.

 _Anywhere_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is blood in my mouth. I will not die here.

“Ridiculous,” Dorian mutters, “Absolutely bloody _ridiculous_.”

Lavellan hums as she shuffles cards at Dorian’s feet.

“I’ve figured out _time travel_.” Dorian snaps as he glares out the dreary little screen covered window.

“I know. I was there.” Lavellan says, and judging by the stains on those cards, they aren’t hers. At least they aren’t the naughty set that he knows Rocky has. It looks a little like Skinner’s cards.

Lavellan – and perhaps Dalish – are the only two people who Dorian is acquainted with who could possibly get away with anything with Skinner. That woman would probably slowly drain the rest of them of their blood for crossing her path or looking at her funny, but Lavellan and Dalish could take the clothes off her back and she’d barely put up a protest. Dorian would call favoritism because it blatantly is, but he’s quite fond of remaining _inside_ his skin, thank _you_.

“I’ve decoded entire venatori _tomes_.” He continues.

“I’ve seen you do that, too.” She hums.

“I’ve organized resistance within Tevinter.”

“I watched you write the letters.”

“I’ve outdrunk _Krem_.”

“I held your hair back when you woke up the next morning.”

It strikes Dorian that Lavellan is around for most of his proud moments. She’s his good luck charm, or something.

“I can figure out this _stupid_ riddle.” Dorian concludes.

“I’m sure you can.” Lavellan says.

“If that Qunari can do it, so can I.”

“That’s the spirit.” She pats his foot, dealing out a round of solitaire on the floor, humming to herself. “It’s just hair, Dorian.”

“Blast it, I can do this.” He says, running his hand through her hair one more time and feeling the strands slip through his fingers like especially fine silk. “If you can do it to your own hair without a mirror or comb,I can do it. How did that man even do your hair? His fingers are the size of sausages.”

“Very carefully.” She answers, “He does Dalish’ hair in the morning sometimes.”

“Then he’s had practice.” Dorian says.

“I guess, so.” Lavellan says. “Dorian, Dorian, Dorian.”

“Yes, what?” Dorian sighs as he attempts to braid her hair one more time.

“When the Bull does Dalish’ hair he puts in little sparkly hairclips. Can I have sparkly hairclips too?”

“Do you have any sparkly hairclips?” Dorian doesn’t really even know how he’s supposed to tie the braid off once he’s done. He hasn’t gotten to that step yet.

“No.” She says after a moment. “I have some pins made out of bone and wood though. If I get some sparkly clips from the Bull will you put them in my hair?”

Dorian is certain that the wiki is fucking with him and showing him pictures that contradict the instructions on purpose.

“Sure.” He says, because this is what friends do. She holds his hair out of his face when he vomits during hangovers. The least he could do is attempt to braid hers. “Why not. Now hold _still_ , would you? This is hard enough without you squirming around like that.”

-

“We found her in the middle of the blast zone.” A scout says, looking a cross between appropriately nervous and professional.

“The it was her.” Cassandra says, but Leliana has been near the center of too many things to accept facts like this. No matter how clear it appears.

“Not necessarily.” Leliana says, not meeting Cassandra’s eyes when the woman turns her gaze onto her. “She could be working for someone, a pawn. Manipulated. She could be a victim.”

“In the center of the explosion. Unharmed when everyone, _everything_ else was completely destroyed and turned to ash? It was her. Who else could it have been, Leliana?”

I don’t know. But I’m going to find out, Leliana thinks as Casssandra swings her glare in the direction of the cellar they’ve been using as their impromptu prison.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter if she dies.” Cassandra sighs, cracking her knuckles against the table.

“Or if _we_ die.” Leliana tacks on.

Then they won’t know anything at all.

“The apostate – “

“Everyone is an apostate, now, Cassandra.”

“The _apostate_  – “ Cassandra repeats, “Are you sure it is wise to allow him to treat her?”

“What other choice do we have? We have no mages with us. And at least he seems to know something of what he’s doing.” Suspicious, along with his timing, but Leliana’s looking into that. Some of her people managed to survive at least. And until she can get the rest of her forces to her – and it is going to be such an annoying _pain_ to have to divert and stop certain operations while they’re scrambling with this mess – she’s going to have to settle with taking things one step at a time.

It’s a terrible and awful feeling. Not moving pieces because she has to deal with the here and now, not affording to think of later, and it reminds Leliana of darker times than this. A younger time.

They are both women who have clawed their way through the world, seizing their destinies and paths with the tips of their fingers. They’ve fought for their choices, for their chance to choose and decide.

And to have it swept away from them and be rendered blind like this?

It’s insulting and it makes Leliana want to grind her teeth.

It’s been a long time since she’s felt so useless. So absolutely _hapless_.

Murderous.

-

There’s blood in my mouth and not enough of it is someone _else’s_.

I won’t lose. I can’t afford to. I have a very slim margin of things I can lose. A slimmer barrier of things I can allow myself to lose. Things that I don’t want to lose but in war things like want don’t matter so I can allow myself to lose them.

I can lose this staff. I can lose Mahanon’s charm. I can lose the braids in my hair that mark me as _me_. I can lose my fingers. I can lose my teeth. I can lose a lot of things. I don’t want to, but I can allow it. I can lose Blackwall. I can lose Dorian. I can lose Sera. I can lose Bull. I don’t want to. Mythal, I don’t want to. But I can afford to.

If it means winning.

But there are things I can’t afford to lose. I cannot lose this hand with the mark of God. I cannot lose Cassandra or Leliana. I cannot lose Cullen. I cannot lose Solas who keeps the mark from killing me, who teaches me how to use the mark. I cannot lose those four. If those four go, the entire Inquisition falls. I can’t afford to lose my life.

It would mean losing.

There is blood in my mouth. I will not die here.

I cannot afford to die.

Some of the blood is mine, most of it is a shem’s from when I sank my teeth into their unprotected arm and refused to let go. My ears ring from gun fire and it makes me dizzy. My ears ring loud and high pitched and I can’t move very well because the ringing makes it hard to get balance. So I lie here quiet with blood in my mouth and I turn my head – slowly – to the side to spit.

My bones ache. I can afford that.

I push myself to my knees, my feet, slow. Magic pools in the spaces between my veins and my hand moves to the dagger at my boot because I dropped the staff but I will never lose my fangs and claws because I am Lavellan, I am first, never again will we surrender. I was born fighting my way into this world, blood and screaming and pain. To be born is to bring pain to others. To be born is to _take_.

So I move careful because it is still hard to find my balance, but as long as there are enemies still left I cannot rest, will not, because I cannot afford to when I am who I am because they need me.

I move because I can’t afford not to and blood is warm on my fingers, sticky and splattering against my face and hands and mouth and I want to flinch but I can’t do that, either.

I breathe.

“Are you alright?” I ask, because this time I didn’t have to lose them. I don’t have to lose them. If I fight hard, if I fight well, I won’t have to lose them. I touch my palms to Dorian’s face and I love him and even though I can afford to lose him, it would kill me slowly. A wound to the heart, my spirit. I would live even if he dies because I could afford it but I would not be alive any longer.

I did not lose Dorian. I did not lose Varric. I did not lose Blackwall. Not this time.

“I’m fine.” Dorian says, sighing as he pulls out a remarkably white handkerchief and wipes my face. “You’re a _mess_.”

But you’re alive and I get to keep you for one more day, I think as I smile up at him like I can’t smile at Mahanon or father or uncle or anyone else with my name again.

“I’m fine.” I tell him because it is true. I have you. I have you all. I get to keep you one more day and how could I be anything but happy with that?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you know that she and Cole write poetry together?” Josephine asks Leliana as she drops by to deliver some messages.

“Remind me how you managed to find _this_.” Varric asks as he watches them build another add on to the stable. It’s bad enough that they fight with swords and shields and crossbows against guns. But their fearless leader rides into battle _literally_. On somewhat less than noble steeds.

“I don’t know.” Lavellan says as she doodles shapes in a pile of snow that hasn’t been cleared off the cement walkway. “A scout found him for me.”

It says something about someone, or something, that a scout saw _this_ and thought of _her_ and decided to bring it back – up an entire mountain range – for her.

“It’s a dead horse. With a sword through it’s head.”

“It’s a neat sword.” Lavellan says, “And the horse is a sweetheart. He kinds of looks like a unicorn like that.”

“A unicorn from a bog?”

“A bog unicorn!” Lavellan says, head snapping up with delight, “It’s a bog unicorn! Thank you, Varric! I’ve been trying to figure out what to call it for _ages_. The breed of horse he was before he died isn’t very clear. We could just call him a bog unicorn. Now we just need a name!”

“Glad to help, kid.” Varric says, and he can’t actually look at the – the bog unicorn, Andraste’s flaming panties, he thought he saw enough shit at Kirkwall – thing head on because it makes him simultaneously want to throw up and whisper prophecies of doom to anyone who’d listen in his deepest voice. “You actually gonna ride that thing?”

“Sure.” She says, and he wonders if the thing has actually somehow worked some sort of magic on her and possessed her _mind_. “What else would I do with him? He’d get _bored_ otherwise. I bet he’d enjoy a nice ride, too, wouldn’t you?”

She turns to coo in the direction of the bog unicorn who doesn’t blink because he doesn’t have eyelids or _eyes_ so much as he has dark pits in his skull that somehow manage to convey a feeling of being watched without actually. You know. Watching.

Creepy.

It _rumbles_ at her.

The giant _stag_ in the stall over stomps its foot and glares.

Varric wonders if this makes them adopted brothers competing for the girl’s attention or what.

He’s too fucking old for this shit.

-

“Can we go back now?” Lavellan asks, nervous as anything as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I don’t like it here. There are too many people.”

Solas rests his hand on her shoulder, “They won’t touch you.”

“I know, but the elders always said avoid crowds and not to go into cities.” She says, “This is _the_ city.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Cassandra says, “Wait for the cars to get here. Our business is done.”

“It’s so loud.” She whispers, hunching her shoulders. “And everything is so bright, how do the city elves take it?”

“They’re used to it.” Solas says, “We’ll get you sunglasses. It helps. Filter out the sounds and focus only on us.”

“But it’s too loud.” She whispers, voice getting softer, “I can’t tell what I’m supposed to listen to.”

“Listen to me. Listen to Cassandra and Varric. Listen to the waterfall.”

“But how will I know if there’s danger coming?” She curls, hunching in on herself as she shades her eyes and focuses on her feet. Varric takes his coat off and hands it to her. She pulls it over her head, shading her face. They look like people hiding from paparazzi and it’s not the best image for Val Royeaux to have of the Herald of Andraste, but it can’t be helped.

He lets her take his hand and squeeze his fingers.

“I don’t think I like cities.” She says looking incredibly pale. “Do we have to come back here?”

“We’ll – acclimatize you slowly.” Cassandra says. “Suburbs aren’t as bad.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Cassandra taps her earpiece, “Now where are those cars?”

-

“Did you know that she and Cole write poetry together?” Josephine asks Leliana as she drops by to deliver some messages.

“Do they even know the standard rules of poetry?”

“I don’t think they know that poetry _has_ rules. But it sounds quite lovely.” Josephine says, “They could make a book. Lavellan’s a good artist, too.”

“They both have the sort of voices that lend themselves to poetry.” Leliana agrees, “They would make excellent bards if they weren’t so.” Leliana waves her hand in a flippant gesture.

“Better for the rest of us, isn’t it?” Josephine laughs. “Honestly, though. Every time I think I’ve gotten a handle on her she goes and does something like that and surprises me. She’s just full of hidden depths, isn’t she?”

Leliana smiles, “The heroes of the stories normally are. And nothing like they’re expected to be.”

“Considering your proximity to so many of them, I’ll trust your experience on the topic.” Josephine says, “Speaking of heroes, any word from – ?”

“No.” Leliana sighs, “I’ve been trying to find her, and I’ve sent out letters. So far, no word back. Either she’s much farther out than I expected, or _deeper_ than I expected, or – ” Leliana shakes her head. “No. No word so far.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Leliana.” Josephine rests her hand on Leliana’s, squeezing the woman’s fingers. “She survived a year with you, the blight, a very dour golem, and an Antivan Crow, among other things. And an Archdemon.”

“And court politics.” Leliana throws in.

“Exactly. If the Arls of Ferelden couldn’t do her in with their bickering and factions, I don’t think there’s anything else out there that can.”

Leliana laughs. “You’re a treasure, Josie, have I told you that recently?”

“It could stand to be repeated a little more often.” Josephine says, “Come down soon. You’re always cooped up here with your birds and your computers. It can’t be good for you.”

“Leliana, Leliana, let down your hair.” The spymaster sing-songs, “I suppose I should go terrorize some people. It’s been some time since I last graced the training ring with my presence.”

“I’m sure Cullen would appreciate you keeping our dedicated recruits on their toes.” Josephine answers, diplomatic even as they link arms to walk towards the area they’ve sectioned off for training the recruits. “They always do so wonderfully after a good surprise inspection from you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow it makes it all the more amazing that she’s turned out the way she has.

I am heavy with sinners. Death. Full of it. Bursting. I can’t take another bite. Not another. I can’t take one more death.

I am too heavy, full to bursting with it. They’re hard and heavy in me. Painful with every step and breath, jostling against the cradle of my pelvic bones and grinding against my organs. I am pregnant with them. Full.

Pained.

I want to part folds of skin, reaching in and in and in until I can touch their fruit and pull the chord and feel them rush out gone, goodbye, rest in peace, please leave me alone. I want to but I can’t.

The dead rest in me, waiting because they must have died for something and they want to see what I made them die for.

I am so heavy with the dead I ache. My feet hurt and the burden of the dead’s dreams sends fire down my back.

I am no longer my own. The dead rest in me but they do not rest they hunger, so I must eat for them. I must drink for them. I must void myself for them. I must fight for them. I have to speak for them, sleep for them, listen for them, watch for them. I am no longer my own because everything I do represents every dead hope and dream entrusted to me and stolen.

They live for me. They die for me. I save some of them, the rest die and I swallow them and they join the fruit in the center of my belly, ballooning outwards. I kill them. I send them to their deaths. With an order. A spell. A gun. A knife.

There are so many ways to kill people.

So many reasons why I am heavy.

At night I curl up small, like this, see? I am like this, like they are, like we all once were – loved and nurtured, once upon a time, by something deeper than faces. Something that is and is not blood because mothers don’t always love their fruit, but the cradle loves them so much. Something deeper than faces. Maybe deeper than blood.

I curl up small to when I am a fruit like the dead inside of me and I wish I had my own mother and I remember my mother’s words. The words of every woman in the clan.

If you are taken by shems, kill yourself. They will harvest you for your fruit. Take it from you and watch you die. Or worse, they will plant their seeds in you because they want their soil alive. Worse. Eternally heavy. Die. It will hurt less.

I did not listen and this is not a fruit of the flesh, but it is a fruit of the spirit and it is heavy and rotting attached to me. But I cannot die, I cannot fade yet. Because I must carry the fruit. I must push it forth and let it go. Because there are things to do. Because there are people I have to save.

I am so heavy with death. Full to bursting. I cannot take another bite.

See?

That is why I cannot let go. Not yet.

I cannot take another death.

So there will be no more.

There will be no more death. I won’t let it happen. Heavy with sin, I am going to fight to protect my people. See? I am heavy with hope. No more. No more.

The rot can take so much from me. But all I need is this hand of God. That’s all I need. I can be down to this hand and my face and the fruit attached to my heart. I won’t let anyone else die.

I’ll bite you to death if I have to.

_No more._

-

It’s sometimes easy to forget that she is Dalish. She’s so gentle. So kind. Childlike. Full of so much wonder at the world. Even the simplest thing like a mechanical pencil can leave her filling the air with delighted laughter.

Simple things, extraordinary things, they’re all beautiful and wondrous to her.

But there are horrific things that are so -

 _Normal_ for her.

Miscarriage, abortion, frost bite, loss of limb, starvation, killing, arson, hunting, field surgery, gangrene.

The world of the Dalish is a harsh one. They keep to the old ways and they are kept from the new.

“It’s not that we don’t _want_ things like this.” Lavellan says as she examines the knife sharpener, marveling at how easy it is compared to a whetstone. “It’s just that we can’t get it. We can’t trade with shem cities. We have to steal these things. And that’s too dangerous. Either you fail to steal it, or you steal it and maybe a shem finds out because they see this thing you obviously shouldn’t have and they go after you. It’s just not worth it, in the end.”

Books are strange for her. Commodities. Newspapers are easier to get, used for insulation and kindling. Reading is a challenge.

“How would we learn?” She tilts her head, “We mostly just hope that the elves from the cities will teach us. Your Chantry only teaches those who convert.”

Grocery stores, bakeries, restaurants, food carts, food trucks, ovens, microwaves, refrigerators, hot plates -

“I know they’re real.” She says, face pressed against the car window, “But it just seemed so strange to hear. I mean – electronic boxes that can hold food without spoiling it for _months_? Food that doesn’t come from a can? Boxes that can cook food in minutes? Buildings full of nothing _but_ food? The first time I heard about it I thought that someone had gotten possessed by a desire demon.”

The Dalish don’t have electricity. Or gasoline.

They have to work for what they have.

“Once the elves were the founders of all of society. Now they’ve been thrown out of it.” She muses, reaching out to swipe at the screen, 3D glasses swallowing her face. “You all just took what we had and ran with it. And it’s so lovely. Really. It’s amazing what you’ve done. Like a fairytale or something. Maybe _I’m_ the one who’s dreaming this.”

“Did your clan ever steal?”

“We tried not to. But sometimes we had to.” Lavellan says. “I’ve never been part of a raid party. Firsts never are. Can’t lose a first to a raid. Not worth it. We usually only did it if someone was sick and we really needed medicine. We’ve only had to raid four times since I was born. Which is good. It means we’re getting healthier, maybe.” Lavellan grins, proud. “I’ve _never_ had to get shem medicine. I just walk it off.”

She’s never had her shots.

The science behind vaccinations fascinate her.

“Do you know what this _means_?” She gasps, shaking Dorian by the front of his shirt. “You could wipe out major diseases. You could save so many people. This is – _how long has this been around_? No wonder there are so many of you! Your babies _live_. Do vaccines pass on? Or do they need to be done for every person? Do they expire? Can I get them? Can I get a vaccination? Does it work on elves? What do I have to do for a vaccination?”

Somehow it makes it all the more amazing that she’s turned out the way she has.

She lived.

She’s living.


	12. Chapter 12

"Well." Solas says when he finds her tangled among the cables near Leliana's truck. "At least we know you didn't get taken by Corypheus' men."  
  
"Please don't let anyone know." Lavellan says, attempting to free one of her feet. "Especially  not Sera. Or Dorian. No, Varric. No, _Cassandra_. Please just don't tell anyone, hahren. _Please_."  
  
"I can't promise that." Solas replies, kneeling to help untangle her. "But I can promise I will do my utmost not to. Unless needs must."  
  
Lavellan whines. " _Hahren_."  
  
"Might I ask why you're tangled in Leliana's cables? And how they still haven't managed to find you despite the fact that you're right outside their observation station?"  
  
"I blend in with the background?"  
  
Solas actually can't say otherwise, considering the fact that she actually has blended in with their entire base on multiple occasions.  
  
"Someone," Solas says as she gets a foot free, "Is going to paint this entire place white or red one day. How many people have tripped on you without realizing it was you today, thus far?"  
  
"Three." Lavellan says. "But I only started counting after someone stepped on my face."  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow. "And you didn't ask any of them for help?"  
  
"It's embarrassing." Lavellan's face flushes red, "But you're my hahren, it's not embarrassing to ask you for help, also you wouldn't laugh to my face."  
  
He supposes it doesn't help that they all see her as a god amongst men.  
  
"You have yet to answer the question as to how you came to be tangled in the cables."  
  
"Well." Lavellan focuses on working her other arm free while he works on her other leg. "The schematics aren't that important. What counts is that I get out, right?"  
  
"Of course. But to satisfy my curiosity, perhaps you could share the information of how this entire situation came to be?"  
  
"I could." Lavellan pointedly closes her mouth. Solas hums and supposes it would be quite mean if he just sat back and left her to her own devices while watching. It probably would be and she'd be quite upset. She's still mad about the astrariums.  
  
Solas nods and continues to untangle her.  
  
"You're my favorite." Lavellan concludes when they've got her untangled. He offers her his arm as he pulls her up.  
  
"For now." Solas tags on.  
  
Lavellan hums before nodding. "For now. If it helps any, you're always somewhere in my top five."  
  
It, oddly, does, make him feel a bit better. Strange. He remembers a time where he wouldn't have cared what anyone thought of him. Perhaps it is because she is his da'len. Perhaps not. He has had da'len before. She has changed him, he supposes. For better or for worse, he hopes he knows which.  
  
"I am honored." Solas replies, "Though it does tend to depend on who else is in that top five with me."  
  
-  
  
"You pushed her onto the train tracks when there was a train coming."  
  
"Look," Bull says splaying his hands out towards Cassandra, "Either it was stay where we were and get surrounded in 'vints with no back up, or it was get on the tracks, jump on the train, and ride it to safety. I made a call."  
  
"You threw the Herald of Andratse and leader of the Inquisition _onto live tracks_!"  
  
"She's fine! Look at her! Perky as a poppy and as delighted as a daisy!" Bull waves a hand towards where Lavellan is playing with some string, laughing and muttering to herself as he makes little magic figures spin around the string. "Ain't that right boss?"  
  
One of the bright pink bubbles of magic bursts in a shower of yellow and orange sparks, causing Lavellan to burst out into surprised giggles.  
  
"See?" Bull says, slapping a hand on his thigh as he looks at her. "Fine. Completely and totally fine."  
  
Cassandra glares, knuckles cracking as she bares her teeth. "That isn't the point."  
  
"I made a judgement call." Bull shrugs.  
  
"You have shit judgement." Cassandra says. "And you have dumb idiotic luck."  
  
"It got us out in one piece. I say that's a good day." Bull replies. "A very good day."  
  
-  
  
"But what if I get hurt?" Lavellan asks, nervous as she stares at the helicopter. "I don't think elves were meant to fly."  
  
"At last she says something that makes sense." Varric says. "I'll take the truck."  
  
"I also want to take the truck." Lavellan raises her hand. "Please and thank you are the shem's versions of magic words."

"Did you teach her that?" Dorian turns to Solas who just walks past them onto the helicopter.  
  
"The truck is slower." Cassandra says, "And we need to get there quickly. Get in the helicopter. It's safe."  
  
Lavellan turns to Dorian.  
  
Dorian shrugs. "I only fly first class."  
  
"What's that? Is that a school?"  
  
Dorian pets her hair.  
  
"Elves weren't meant to fly." Lavellan repeats, moving to stand behind Varric.  
  
"You'll be fine, da'len." Solas calls from inside the helicopter.  
  
"Someone's eager to go." Dorian mutters.  
  
Lavellan looks from the helicopter blades above to the ones to the side.  
  
"It's really the best way to get there?"  
  
"I wouldn't make you if it wasn't." Cassandra says, voice softening as she addresses Lavellan. "Please get in."  
  
"Okay." Lavellan says, "But I want to sit next to hahren and Bull. They're safe."  
  
"And they'll probably protect you from an explosion. You know. Buffers." Dorian says.  
  
Bull snorts, ushering her onto the helicopter.  
  
"Don't worry, boss. If this goes down I've survived some pretty crazy shit. I'll get you out of it." Bull says. "And if not, hey - not the worst way to die, right?"  
  
Lavellan grabs Solas's arm and squeezes it. "Hahren please recite the prayers for me."  
  



	13. Chapter 13

  
"It's for your own good, they say." Lavellan mutters, kicking a tire and yelping, jumping back from it. "It's to keep you safe from racists assholes, they say. It's to keep you safe from racist, _sexist_ assholes, they say. I've kept myself safe from those all my life."  
  
"What _is_ the elven word for racist and sexist asshole?" Varric asks. Lavellan snorts, scuffing her boot on the cement as she waits for Bull and Sera to come back with information. Varric hands her a small plastic cube. Rubik cubes, they're called. They're very clever. Fun. Lavellan's solved this one already, she just likes playing with them. It gives her hands something to do.  
  
Sera and Varric get nervous when she plays with magic.  
  
One of the few games hahren will indulge her with are magic games, though, and he's taught her new ones, too. She hopes to take them back to the clan someday.  
  
"Dead shem." Lavellan replies.  
  
"Does that mean there aren't any asshole elves?"  
  
"We have assholes, but they aren't sexist." Lavellan replies. "Three of our Gods are female. And they're the ones we envoke most often. Also women are the ones who pass on the magic. Raise the babies. And do pretty much all the important things right along with the men. Besides, Andraste was a woman. Why do they think women can't do things?"  
  
"Because they're not that smart, kid." Varric says. "And think that a pair of tits is worth less than a pair of testicles."  
  
Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "Weird."  
  
"I know." Varric says. "Same for us dwarves."  
  
Lavellan hums. "But why can't I wear the things I want to wear? Elven clothing is so much more comfortable and enduring and pretty."  
  
"That's because you skid down mountain slopes for fun. Most clothes won't hold up to that. I've never seen someone go through shoes so damn fast."  
  
-  
  
"Isn't this slave labor? I thought you people looked down on slavery here." Lavellan says as she examines the empty factory.  
  
"It's complicated." Sera says, "It involves normal people economics."  
  
"I hate shem economics." Lavellan mumbles. "It always messes everything up."  
  
"Yeah." Sera agrees, wrinkling her nose. "It fucks everything up. That's capitalism for you. An unsustainable system of unrealistic expectations."  
  
"Your coins are also weird." She says. "And your colored bills. And stuff. Who are even the people your bills? They look funny."  
  
"Dunno. Some important piss ant - "  
  
"Isn't the word pissant?"  
  
" - who did something-something for someone important and probably had lots of money and ancestors who had sex when they were brothers and sisters or whatever."  
  
"Ew." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "And you put those people on your money?"  
  
"I didn't choose them." Sera shrugs. "I just like spending them. I mean. Who doesn't?"  
  
"I like the pink ones from Orlais." Lavellan says.  
  
"Yeah, the pretty colors help. Even though the people look weird as fuck on them. I kind of like the fifty coins from Ferelden. Got little dogs on them."  
  
"I thought all Ferelden money has dogs on them."  
  
"Some of them have crowns, too." Sera points out. "The ten bill has dogs and crowns."  
  
"Ferelden money makes me happy because it's just pictures of dogs being happy." Lavellan says. "Do these people get paid in Ferelden money?"  
  
"No. They probably don't get paid very much in anything." Sera answers, leaning her hip against the rails that overlook the working area, filled with half made bags, the lining containing packets of diluted lyrium. "The Inquisition will make it better for them. Yeah?"  
  
"I hope so." Lavellan replies, sitting down and letting her legs dangle through the rails. "I don't know what I'd do if we turned out to be something as bad as all of this."  
  
"I wouldn't be with you if you guys were. Trust me. The Jenny's find a way to let you know." Sera nudges Lavellan's back with the tip of her boot.  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
-  
  
"Can you arrest someone for riding through a city on a giant deer? Like, is there a law _specifically_ outlawing that? I mean. If said person was going through on the equestrian walkway."  
  
"Do I want to know why you're asking me this?" Cullen asks, running a hand down his face as he braces himself for what he's certain is going to be a giant headache.  
  
Dorian hums.  
  
"Well. We both happen to know a certain Dalish elf who happens to have somehow enchanted a giant stag into following her around, don't we?"  
  
"Maker's breath, you let her go into the city on the stag."  
  
"I don't _let_ her do anything. No one _lets_ her do anything. The verb let implies that I have the ability to stop her, as if I give her _permission_ to do things. I'd like to remind you that she's been deemed the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor of the Inquisition. No one _let's_ her do anything. She's right up there with the Archon and the Empress. I'd actually like to see someone try to stop her, you know." Dorian strokes his mustache, humming. "It'd be rather amusing, to be honest. I mean. Could you imagine someone telling her she couldn't do something? I mean. She'd listen, _of course._ She's nice like that. But she'd ask why until she turns someone's head around and makes them want to jump out a window into a lake filled with sharks. Magic fire breathing sharks."  
  
Cullen refrains from asking about the semantics of a fire breathing aquatic animal and cuts to the point.  
  
"Where is she? Why aren't you still with her?"  
  
"Cool it, Commander. I'm not completely irresponsible when it comes to my absolutely best friend in this entire world." Dorian rolls his eyes. "I left her with Sera and Varric in the middle of the center square of Val Royeaux."  
  
Cullen chokes on his own spit and nearly falls out of his chair.  
  
"Dorian!"  
  
"What? Between the three of them there's bound to be someone with a little bit of self control and common sense. I mean, one of them is an organizer for people's revolutions and the other is a businessman and author."  
  
"They're _rogues_ with criminal records."  
  
"And I'm a Tevinter altus, the Inquisition is a rebel military operation, Leliana is a super secret assassin spy, and you're a Templar deserter."  
  
"I didn't desert!"  
  
"You're a regular renegade and no one here is clean." Dorian waves a hand. "She'll be fine. Probably. Is she doing anything illegal? She could probably claim political amnesty or something, right? The King of Ferelden likes her. They text. It's cute. It's like watching two toddlers handle a keyboard with emojis for the first time. With the added bonus of them both being drowned in sensory stimuli. Like drunk butterflies, if you will."  
  
"I don't need to know this about my sovereign ruler."  
  
"But now you do. Congratulations."


	14. Chapter 14

  
"I told him to eat more vegetables," Lavellan says, looking cross and confused as she skids into the bench, bumping against Dorian, causing him to slide into Sera and making Sera nearly elbow Varric in the temple. "But he said that we're in Orlais, so he'd just grab a pizza and I don't understand what round flat-bread with cheese and oil has to do with leafy greens. I need one of you to explain it to me. Is it a Qunari thing?"  
  
Lavellan turns and leans over Dorian to ask down the line at Varric, "Varric, is this a Qunari thing?"  
  
"Do I look like an expert in giant gray ox people to you?" Varric says, warily eyeing Sera's elbow.  "It's not a Qunari thing, Poppy. It's an Orlesian joke."  
  
"Explain." Lavellan frowns, still leaning over Dorian.  
  
Dorian continues to eat, undisturbed by the fact that there is currently an elf practically draped over his lap and arms holding a conversation in the middle of the mess hall with a dwarf.  
  
"Pass the sugar tray." Dorian says, resting an arm on the small of her back and gesturing at Blackwall. Blackwall grunts and slides the metal rectangle at Dorian before going back to what the cafeteria staff claims to be corned beef.  
  
No one's died from it yet, so there's no cause for them to challenge the claim. At this point, they're all just waiting and hoping that it isn't someone important who keels over due to mystery foods.  
  
The sugar, though, is definitely real.  
  
"Orlais ruled pizza as a vegetable two years ago." Sera explains, "That way their fat kids could have at least three servings of it."  
  
"But there aren't any vegetables on the pizzas they serve at schools." Lavellan says, turning to Sera. "I've seen them. They're just cheese."  
  
"Tomatoes are vegetables." Varric throws in. "I think Kirkwall is trying to get that legislation passed, too."  
  
"But there's only tomato sauce on pizza. That doesn't count."  
  
"If you eat enough of it, you can probably get enough of a healthy dose of tomato to count as a serving of vegetables."  
  
Lavellan looks horrified.  
  
Dorian pats her back and reaches under her waist for more napkins.  
  
Each napkin is about as thin as an onion skin and as absorbent as one, too. It's almost as useless as the toilet paper.  
  
"Don't worry about the Chief." Krem says, ambling over from the Charger's table and reaching over Dorian to squeeze the back of her neck. "If he goes down I promise it won't be because of malnutrition. He's been eating like that and worse for years. Frankly, most of the bets for what takes him down are the booze. Or the sex. _Probably_ the booze, though."  
  
Lavellan's eyes narrow and she drops down onto Dorian's lap, spilling over onto Sera as well. Both Dorian and Sera lift their knees a little to keep her from rolling onto the mess floor, and continue eating. Dorian rests an elbow on her hip.  
  
" _No_ , that isn't a challenge for you to try and save him from his booze and women and men." Krem tags on. "So don't. It'll only end in tears. And I am deeply uncomfortable thinking about the Chief crying."  
  
-  
  
"I don't think I like this game." Lavellan says as Sera settles the controller in her hands. "Don't we kill enough people in real life?"  
  
Sera snorts. "Yeah, maybe, no. This is funner."  
  
"Killing people isn't fun."  
  
"Yeah, whatever. Not real people being killed." Sera turns the console on with her toe as she flops to lean against the bean bag chair Rocky dragged in. "Also, some games don't even involve people being killed. Aliens. Bears. Candy-thingies. Dogs."  
  
Lavellan makes a horrified sound and smacks Sera in the arm.  
  
"How dare you hurt a dog! What did the dog ever do to you?"  
  
"Oh relax, would you?" Sera sighs, "You aren't even from Ferelden."  
  
"You don't need to Ferelden to like dogs." Lavellan mutters. "Do you even know what dog spelled backwards _is_?"  
  
" _Anyways_." Sera says over Lavellan's muttering, "You'll like this. Promise. It's about killing white rich pricks trying to conquer your tribe."  
  
"We don't live in tribes."  
  
"It's a fictional game in which there is a fictional race of people who live in tribes and are about to be conquered by rich assholes vaguely inspired by Orlesians." Sera explains as she selects the game from the menu. "Besides, the music's nice. You'll like the music. It's your kind of thing. Intense stuff. Lots of nonsense singing in the background."  
  
"Chanting."  
  
" _Nonsense singing_." Sera repeats.  
  
"You haven't explained this thing, yet." Lavellan says as Sera presses start.  
  
"Oh. Yeah. Right." Sera hums as Lavellan tentatively nudges the controls. "You'll get it eventually. You're smart."  
  
"Wait, no, Sera - "  
  
"Diving on head first is the way to go. I'm setting this to hard. It'll be fine, don't worry. It's gonna be fun." Sera nudges Lavellan's knee with her own. "It's the most amazing when you don't know what you're doing. Trust me. Cocking it up is half the fun of it. You figure out the most amazing things."  
  
"I don't like the sound of this." Lavellan says, eyes slowly growing wider as the game starts up. "Is there a tutorial? Instructions?"  
  
"There's yelling and dying and swearing and a silent protagonist." Sera says as she unplugs her controller. "Also revenge. Vengeance. Justice. Whatever you want to call it. And cute rabbits."  
  
"Mythal give me strength." Lavellan whispers as the screen loads with a loud scream, a flash of light, and thundering music, leaning away from the television, toes curling as she squints. "This is why so many of you wear glasses."  
  
"Not me." Sera says.  
  
"Not yet." Lavellan winces and starts pressing buttons. "I don't know what's happening."  
  
"A lot like our real fights, when you think about it."  
  
"I know what I'm doing in a fight! Usually! That one time with the fireworks doesn't count!" Lavellan says, voice raising into a frantic yell over the sound of splatters and steel. "Why does the game start in the middle of a fight?"  
  
"Why not?" Sera laughs. "You come into the world screaming and covered and blood, why not start a game that way?"  
  
"This isn't relaxing! Games are supposed to be relaxing!"  
  
Sera cackles, head thrown back as Lavellan lets out a small shriek and skids as far away from the screen as possible as she jams at buttons.  
  
"I don't like this!" Lavellan yells. "I don't like this, Sera! I don't like this at all!"  
  
"You haven't even gotten to the good part, yet." Sera says. "Don't worry. Give it - " Sera hums, examining Lavellan's frantic progress, " - eh, two hours? At this rate? One and a half? And you'll like it."  
  
"I don't believe you! You said that about body shots, too! I still don't like those. Sera!"


	15. Chapter 15

"A generally good indicator of whether something is a good idea or not is if the thing you're gonna do is gonna make Josephine want to rip your face off or not." Dorian says, "That being said, I think this is a wonderful idea and Josephine will probably let this go. So do it. Climb him like a tree and then rip his face off."  
  
"You shouldn't attack people." Cullen says, because someone has to be the voice of reason and clearly it's not going to be Dorian.  
  
Lavellan looks like a few seconds away from listening to the man and climbing over the tables to the foreign ambassador and taking his eyes out with her bare hands.  
  
"He attacked me first." Lavellan replies. "Verbally. And isn't there a shem saying about words and pens and swords and I don't know, your saying don't really make sense to me. There are things like stopping to smell the roses and stuff which make no sense because there aren't any roses in half the places people say to do that. Also I don't know about cake. That saying about cake? I don't understand it and Dorian's explained it twice, hahren just says to leave shem sayings alone because they're too literal."  
  
"Says the elf savage." Dorian snorts, dodging the swat she aims at his head.  
  
"Don't." Cullen says, putting his hand on her arm and pushing as she curls up in a pounce. "Please, Inquisitor."  
  
"The man did say please." Dorian tags on, snagging Lavellan's goblet, "If that counts for anything."  
  
"It's fair retaliation!" Lavellan frowns, "Everyone always say that you need to stand up for what's right and for yourself. So I'm going to stand up and teach that racist shem a lesson he'll never forget."  
  
"We don't need blood on the front hall." Cullen says "You can destroy him in a suitably painful and long lasting way later. I'm sure Sera and Leliana have ideas. If not, there's always Bull."  
  
"But why can't  _I_  do it."  
  
"Because we need money, or at the very least, we need him to stay here long enough that we can figure out at least one secret we can chain him to us with to." Cullen replies. "I promise you can do what you like later. If you can just wait a little first."  
  
"My people have been waiting for over a thousand years." Lavellan whines. "Cullen."  
  
-  
  
"Among my people I am a highly talented mage." Lavellan says, frowning as Solas and Dorian gather books, dropping them in front of her. "I've already finished my training."  
  
"Your Dalish training is lacking in some much needed elements." Dorian replies, attempting to toss out the books Solas keeps placing on the desk. "She doesn't need more Dalish training."  
"The Dalish don't know their training is incomplete. There's more that she's lost." Solas replies. "And it won't help to confuse her by attempting to teach her with the human school of magic. The two are different in practice and dogmas."  
  
"Yes well there are some spells that she could really learn from that aren't covered by your hedge magic." Dorian huffs, "And histories and theories, as well."  
  
"I know things."  
  
"Not enough things." Dorian replies, "You could know more."  
  
"Your fundamentals are strong, and you are well versed in history and lore. Your Dalish education is suitable for your existence in the field. But when working with such ancient scriptures and artifacts it is necessary to expand your knowledge base to what goes beyond basic and necessary survival skills."  
  
Lavellan frowns and draws a face on the grain of the desk with her finger as Solas and Dorian return to sorting out lesson plans.  
  
"I should've just gone with Bull and Sera to the stupid race track. They said we could meet the horses." Lavellan hits her head down on the desk.  
  
"But you didn't because you have taste and some measure of dignity." Dorian says, petting her hair. "Hush while we discuss you future education and wellbeing."  
  
-  
  
"Are you aware of the fact that you have a fanclub?" Dorian asks. "I mean, it must come to no surprise that someone as ruggedly rugged and ragged as you has fans. But did you know that they've organized themselves with a president and funding and everything? It's somewhat awe inspiring, but also ridiculous because why do  _you_  get a fanclub and not me?"  
  
"It could be that you're Tevinter." Cullen says.  
  
He is, in fact, aware of his fanclub. He was made aware by Leliana, who informed him with no small amount of delight in her eyes. They have pictures of him from when he was a Templar and stationed in Ferelden, which is - frankly - quite terrifying at how well they were able to go back in his records.  
  
They meet every other Thursday - when drills go on into the early evening - in the free meeting room that overlooks the training grounds.  
  
About two months ago, Lavellan stumbled in on one of their meetings by accident and got invited to be an honorary member.  
  
She bought the calendar.  
  
Every woman in Cullen's acquaintance owns that calendar. Even Vivienne. It's somewhat embarrassing.

"I like September best." Lavellan told him as she held the thing up in the light, leaning against his window as he considered opening that bottle of whiskey Josephine gave him as his belated signing bonus when the Inquisition finally got on its feet with actual funds in their bank account. "You have freckles on your shoulders! We match! Cullen, how did they get so many pictures of you without your shirt? Or pants?"  
  
"Of course." Dorian replies. "Just out of curiosity, are any of the pictures they have of you actually taken legally and not through some sort of spy camera?"  
  
"Leliana is the vice- president, so no." Cullen answers. Leliana is mostly just amused by the entire thing and joined to have something to do.  
  
"Who is the president of this fanclub?" Dorian asks, prodding at the perpetual motion machine that Josephine put on his shelf. To brighten the place up, or something. Cullen doesn't really know. People just drop things and rearrange his office. To change the atmosphere.  
  
Cullen is of the opinion that as long as there's a steady writing surface and serviceable light to see by it doesn't matter what else is around. He's a military commander, his office doesn't need an atmosphere.  
  
He keeps giving the things left here away but people keep replacing them.  
  
"It's a joint presidency." Cullen answers, because Leliana wouldn't let him get away with blissful ignorance and to that end has kept him informed of all of the club's various gossip and events since she joined. "Led by one of the scouts - I can't remember her name at the moment - and one of the mess hall staff. The one who makes the good coffee. The one that tastes like actual coffee."  
  
"I know that man. I like him." Dorian replies. "And now my opinion of him has gone up even more. How does one go about joining this club and are there any special bonuses?"


	16. Chapter 16

“Someone, and I’m not going to point fingers, gave Lavellan a _five hour energy_ and right now what’s important is figuring out how to handle the fact that she’s now running around like a large energizer bunny that can shoot _lightning_ out of her _hands_.” Varric says while Sera thunks her head against her closed laptop repeatedly. “Then later I’ll point all my fingers because I can guess who’s responsible for this dumb and tragic idea. Hopefully she isn’t dead.”

“Why would she be dead?”

“Either she does something so stupid while energy crazed that she kicks it, or it wears off and she falls into such a deep coma she needs life support.” Varric explains, “Where are the others? I have a feeling that we’re going to need a lot more than a writer and a tired rebel against authority to get her somewhere safe.”

Sera ticks off on her fingers, nose wrinkled in concentration, “Baldy and Dorian are arguing theory somewhere. Bull’s sleeping off his hangover. Skinner’s training scouts in stealth. Stitches is working infirmary. Krem and Dalish are off base doing something. Blackwall’s helping the troops run tactical simulations. Vivienne’s doing somethin’ fancy, probably. Dunno about the demon – “

“ _Cole_.”

“ – the _demon_ , and I don’t _care_. And Seeker’s probably destroying a training field with the power of her cheekbones.”

“Sounds about right.” Varric replies, “Also useless as to how we’re supposed to round her up.”

“You make her sound like cattle.”

“Eats grass, could placidly stare at clouds all day, makes strange noises for attention because she can’t be assed to say people words? Covered in spots?”

“Point to the dwarf without a beard.” Sera admits. “Alright, it’s you and me and whatever sorry scout we can drag into this mess. Sounds good. Where do we start?”

“Last I saw her she was singing the Mission Impossible theme song while playing in the aircraft hanger’s rafters.” Varric answers. “From there she could probably be anywhere. The good news is that she doesn’t know how to fly aircraft. The bad news is that she might be out of her skull to try anyway.”

They both pause.

Sera shrugs. “I don’t hear screaming. She’s fine. Probably. Let’s go get her.”

-

“You can’t text spells.” Dorian repeats.

“Well why _not_? I can _write_ spells.” Lavellan frowns, gesturing at the endless pile of books Dorian and Solas have set out for her study. “You write spells, you write runes. Why not type them? Text them? That seems the next logical step in magical innovation. Honestly, you people have had this technology for how long and you haven’t figured digital spellwork out?”

“It just _isn’t done_.”

“Is this a class thing?”

“No, it’s not a class thing, you just _don’t_ digitize spells.” Dorian waves his hands. “It’s about intonation and – and rhythm and _breathing_.”

“But you don’t _breathe_ or _speak_ a rune.” Lavellan points out. “So rune based text magic should work! Come on, Dorian. Time magic wasn’t a thing until you made it so. Why can’t we make digitized spells a thing, too?”

“Do you even know how many problems that can cause?”

“More than _ripping a hole open in time?”_

“That wasn’t even _me_!” Dorian throws his arms up. “Andraste woman! Stop trying to seduce me into mad-science with your adorable little button nose and your baby animal eyes! I have some measure of control and restraint and you are quickly wearing through it! Cease and desist! I demand it!”

“I’m the Herald of Andraste. I’ll make as many baby animal eyes at you as I want! And my nose isn’t a button! Come on, Dorian! Innovation! Creativity! The knowledge that you’re doing something no one’s done before and that it’d make the rest of the world spit blood at our audacity and ability to even pull it off!”

Dorian groans. “You are a terrible person and the reason why I make bad life decisions.”

“That’s not true. You only met me a few months ago.” Lavellan replies. “The rest of your terrible decisions are all you.”

“But you have to admit that there’s a large and growing number of terrible decisions made during these few months that are quickly outpacing all previous ones.”

“I will admit nothing until you help me digitize spellwork.” Lavellan crosses her arms and turns her nose up. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Stubborn woman.” Dorian groans. “Flying in the face of over a thousand years work of tradition.”

“It’s what I do _best_.” Lavellan huffs, “Just like what _you_ do best is make genius discoveries and what _we_ do best is pull of miracles.”

“Fasta vass woman, fine, stop laying it on so thick, I’m in.” Dorian tugs her hair, sighing – loud and dramatic as she beams at him. “You are going to be the death of me.”

-

“I would deeply appreciate it if you could stop breathing down my neck – literally – as this is very distracting and uncomfortable for me.” Lavellan says as she focuses on the wires in front of her. “In fact, I would appreciate it if we could switch positions because I have no idea what I’m doing. You realize that we don’t exactly teach our children how to hot-wire cars and disarm bombs, right? I mean, I could make poison and antidotes and I could hunt an animal in the middle of the night but we don’t have electricity. Not really. So this is something out of my field of expertise.”

“That’s why we’re practicing.”

“If it’s practice why is it live and in the middle of a fight?”

“Because you’re the type of person who learns best under pressure.”

“I feel like this might be too much pressure for me.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I have one wire left and you told me to _take a lucky guess_. I don’t feel like I’m doing fine. I feel like we might die because I prefer the color green over the color blue.”

“In the movies it’s normally a red wire, which is what’s kind of weird about this situation.”

“ _In the movies?”_ Lavellan hisses, “Do you mean to tell me you don’t actually _know how to disarm a bomb and have been instructing me based on movies?_ Cassandra said _movies lie!”_

“If enough movies tell you it’s the red wire, it’s probably the red wire.”

“But there _is no red wire!”_

“Which is what’s really tripping me up right now. You know, we probably should’ve had Sera teaching this to you. It’s her expertise and everything.”

“Mythal save me.” Lavellan whispers. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“To be frank, I don’t know why everyone else thought I’d be a good idea to teach you how to disarm a bomb in the middle of a fight, but here we are. Go with green. It’s a lucky color.”


	17. Chapter 17

“You took her to a _club_. A _strip_ club. A _gay strip club_.”

“It was more for me than it was for her, to be honest.” Dorian replies, “And it was more like she took _me_ to a gay strip club. Bless her, I don’t even think she realized what was happening until clothes started coming off. Then she was mostly entertained and wanted to get up on stage with them. You know what – I still don’t think she quite understands, but that’s alright. They were all really good sports out of it.”

( _I made so many friends!_ )

Cullen groans. “You took the _Herald of Andraste_ to a _gay strip club_ and _let her strip on stage with them_.”

“She got an amazing amount of tips considering the clientele.” Dorian says. “Besides, she only went down to her underwear. Not all the way. Her underwear wasn’t even that exciting.”

“We aren’t going to talk about whether or not Inquisitor Lavellan makes a good stripper or not.” Cullen can’t actually believe he has to say these words out loud. He never thought he’d be here saying this. These are words he never thought he’d say. Ever. The Inquisition is rapidly proving to be a series of firsts and unexpected moments for him. He’s not quite sure if he’s up to finding out what else is in store.

“Good. Because it’s something you had to be there to really talk about and I am not going to argue with you about it.”

“We’re going to talk about how you managed to both sneak off base and somehow get to a club and what made you think it was a good idea to proceed from there.”

“How come you’re only giving _me_ the talking to, anyway?” Dorian frowns. “It’s not as if I tricked her. There are two guilty parties in this and I find it highly unfair that you’re only lecturing me.”

“Cassandra is talking to Lavellan as we speak. Do you want to trade places?”

Dorian opens his mouth, raises a finger, and thinks it over.

“Never mind, do continue, Commander.”

“That’s what I thought.”

-

Josephine nearly spits out her tea, instead starts choking on it, eyes watering as Leliana pounds on her back.

“Inquisitor Lavellan is _what_ with the _King of Ferelden_?”

“Texting him. Don’t worry about international rates, Alistair’s covering it.”

Josephine continues to sputter, unsure of whether she wants to smack the smug look off Leliana’s face or get the Inquisitor’s phone records to make sure no thing terrible has been said or done, but eventually gets out - “ _How?”_

“Well. I told Alistair that the Herald of Andraste doesn’t like cheese. He called me a filthy liar and I think we both know that I can’t abide by being insulted in such a way.” Leliana explains, “So I told Lavellan that he called me such and she was incredibly offended on my behalf and told me to tell him, and you can quickly see where this is going so about ten messages later I gave them each other’s numbers and they’ve been extraordinary friends ever since. It’s really helped Lavellan learn how to use her phone.”

Josephine covers her face in her hands, and it’s tempting to rub her eyes but that would smear her make up and she has a meeting in less than twenty minutes with the Orlesian ministers of finance.

“You tell me these things at the worst times.”

“The best times, you mean. It’s got you thinking about something other than your meeting, doesn’t it?”

“This is worse than meeting with Orlesian ministers.”

“No it isn’t. Besides, they’re friends, now. And Alistair is _Alistair_ and Lavellan is _Lavellan_. Nothing can possibly go wrong that we can’t later fix. If anything it’s just going to end up with a strange influx of cheese to Skyhold and Lavellan sending him various chicken bones.”

“Chicken bones?”

“I read their texts. To help Lavellan and Alistair figure out cultural differences.” Leliana hums, “Mostly they text in emojis and I have absolutely no idea how they understand each other. It’s like they have their own language.”

Josephine has a feeling that Leliana is refraining from saying something along the lines of _a language of idiots_ or something similarly insulting for the sake of her friends.

“You had to tell me at this very moment?”

“You feel better, don’t you?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Well. It gives you something to think about when the ministers start to drone on, no?”

-

“I have something of a dilemma on my hands.” Lavellan says.

“Literally.” Dorian replies, raising an eyebrow. “If you count the mark as a minor dilemma. Do tell, what have you gotten into this time?”

“I haven’t gotten into anything.” Lavellan replies. “I almost got into jail but that’s something different and I have that completely under control for the most part.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what _completely under control_ means.”

Lavellan continues on, “I have accidentally damaged Cassandra’s book.” She holds up a water drenched paperback. “And I need to know what to do.”

“You need to hope that her affection for you outweighs her adoration for terrible romances.” Dorian answers. “Buy a new one?”

“But she annotates them.”

“Well aren’t you buggered?”

“Dorian now is not the time for you to be using slang I don’t understand.” Lavellan gestures at the book. “I need help!”

“That you do. Meanwhile, I shall be purchasing a ticket to get as far away from this fall out as possible.” Dorian salutes her and starts walking away, ignoring her as she frets behind him, tugging at his clothes and cursing and pleading with him.

“You’re the only one I can ask for help! Cole wouldn’t know what to do and Varric is the only other person who _knows!”_

“Shall I pack those books on Genitivi or should I make room for those new boots? Decisions, decisions. Oh, but there’s also that lovely wine glass Josephine procured for me with the most beautiful gilt stem, real glass straight from Nevarra, you know.”

“ _Dorian_.”

“I wonder if I should buy traveler’s insurance.”

“Dorian!”

“I will most likely need to make some inquires at the bank.”

“Dorian! Come on! Please?”

“Oh, _fine_. We both know I wouldn’t leave you to your fate at this point down the road. We’ll go buy a new one and have you practice your watery eyed scolded baby animal impression. And this is why you don’t read in odd places. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson.”


	18. Chapter 18

“So what did you do?” Lavellan asks, leaning across the table, completely and totally caught up in the Chief’s story and still managing to avoid Dalish dumping her overcooked broccoli on her plate. Krem admire’s that kind of skill. He’s still trying to figure out how to get her into a contract with the Chargers for after this is over but Josephine and Varric – who’ve apparently taken on duties as her _managers_  – keep turning down the contracts he’s been sending over.

“I hit him.” Chief replies, amused and pleased by the attention and apparent belief she’s putting into his story – which Krem supposes is a nice change from having the Chargers call bullshit at him at various moments. She’s polite like that.

Lavellan’s eyes are wide and there are high spots of excited red on her cheeks and technically the Chief did hit him but there was a whole lot of foreplay and stuff she doesn’t need to know going before that, so Krem cuts in -

“With a car.”

“Three times.” Skinner throws in from down the table where she’s playing a round of solitaire.

“Then backed up over him to make sure.” Stitches adds on, experimentally prodding at what the cafeteria says is pudding but could possibly be industrial waste.

“Then floored it.” Rocky nudges Grim with his elbow. Grim turns to fully face Lavellan and nods his agreement.

Lavellan gapes.

“You hit a wyvern with your car and _ran him over_?”

“It wasn’t that impressive.” Dalish mutters. “It was after I gave the thing a shock. It was _confused_.”

“You have electric arrows now?” Krem raises an eyebrow. Dalish sticks out her tongue.

“What happened after?” Lavellan asks, staring up into the Chief’s face with something that’s approaching respect and reverence at a worrying speed. Krem’s going to have to figure out a way to get that to slow down before the Chief gets fuller of it than he normally is.

“We drove off into the sunset and to find the nearest bar still open.” Krem concludes. “You should probably finish your lunch, your worship.” He jerks his head in the direction of the doors closest the the training field. “I hear you’ve got combat practice. Don’t want to be late for that. There are at least ten people you haven’t made ridiculous fools off in the ring.”

-

“After about two day’s worth of incredibly difficult, trying, straining, and complex research we have come to the following conclusion: Lavellan really, _really_ , does not like electronica music.” Dorian announces on Friday morning, “Which means our choices of clubs in the area are incredibly slim and that my best friend’s tastes aren’t as good as I hoped they would be. Do you hear that? I’m disappointed in you.”

“It’s just _noise_.” Lavellan calls over, looking incredibly frazzled and twitchy as she wobbles into the room. “My ears feel funny, I think you broke them.”

“Electronica is all the rage, I’ll have you know.”

“How can music be all the anger in the world?”

“That’s not the phrase means, kid.” Varric says, “And I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation since you’re yelling it to the room at large. But did you ever stop to think that maybe your tastes are the weird ones? It is just noise.”

“You don’t get a say in this, you dress like a homeless man.” Dorian replies. “Also _Swords and Shields_.”

Varric raises his hands in surrender. “Shutting up now.”

“So what _does_ she like, if not electronica?” Krem asks, making room as Lavellan squeezes onto the couch between him and Grim, noise wrinkled in frustration as Dorian pulls out his phone.

“Classical music and soundtracks worked well enough for her.” Dorian says, scrolling through what’s probably a list of things he had her listen to. “Unless there’s an overabundance of trumpets, in which case it gets too intense for her and she needs to start climbing things. Country, jazz, blues, most indie, folk, and disco went – well. They _went_. The surprise is that rock and heavy metal really, really took off. Like _really_.”

“Their lyrics are nice.” Lavellan says when the others turn to _look_ at her.

“It’s the anarchy isn’t it.” Krem muses, “Dalish likes the heavy stuff too.”

-

“You can’t actually go into a dog park without a dog.” Sera says. “It’s weird. It’s a park for dogs and dog owners.”

“I have a Bull.” Lavellan points out. “Besides, there’s a rift in the dog park. It wouldn’t be weird for me to go in.”

“She has a point.” Blackwall admits.

“Look, Venatori spies are everywhere. A Dalish elf, a Qunari, and a bearded old dude walking into a dog park armed to the teeth without a dog is going to raise some flags.” Sera replies, “I’m not gonna explain this to you again. S’just common sense.”

“Well I don’t have a dog because no one will let me get one.” Lavellan frowns. “I’d be so good to a dog.”

“You have a giant deer.”

“The rift isn’t in a _deer_ park, is it?”

“We could borrow a dog.” Blackwall points out.

“Or we could get me my own dog.” Lavellan replies. “That way we don’t have to borrow someone else’s dog. And it’d take a dog out of the shelter. We need to protect shelter animals.”

“Can we get back to the rift inside the dog park?”

“When we get a dog we can use to get inside without looking like weird dog-nappers or something.” Sera replies. “I mean we have a giant white van.”

“Bull can’t fit in the normal vans. It’s not his fault, he’s _big boned_.” Blackwall snorts. Sera rolls her eyes.

“Thanks, Boss.”

“I’ve got your metaphorical back, Bull.” Lavellan turns to give Bull a thumbs up. “Anyway. The rift isn’t in the main area of the park. That’s why no one’s noticed it so far. We could go in by the back? Climb a fence?”

“Because that’s so much less suspicious.”

“We could do it at night.”

“So we’re just going to sit in this van until night falls? This is just getting better and better.”

“We could drive back.”

“It took us four hours to get here. By the time we get back, it’ll be time to drive back again.”

“Well I brought a book to read.” Lavellan concludes. “And I saw a food store a few blocks back. Bull can help me with my homework. I think we’re set for nightfall. Unless someone wants to drive us to a shelter.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Well. She is a super spy.”

Bull shoots Dorian an amused look. “A _super_ spy?”

“This isn’t the funny pages, Tevinter A. There’s no such thing as a _super_ spy.” Krem says, yanking the dog tags off of one of the half-charred corpses Lavellan left behind in the wake of one of her more creative spells.

“Very funny, Tevinter B.” Dorian replies, “Do you mean to tell me that girl couldn’t kill us all in her sleep? On _accident_?”

“She _could_.” Bull says. “Kill _most_ of us in our sleep. On accident. I’m sure the rest of us would wake up. Murder isn’t as quiet as movies make it look. And no offense to the people in charge, but the barracks aren’t exactly the nicest place. Sound carries.”

“Terrible insulation.” Dalish says as she breezes past them, arms full of scavenged guns and runes. “Absolutely _dreadful_.”

“She says that, but she’s the one screeching her lungs out at two in the morning.” Krem mutters. “And we have to _live_ with her.”

“Getting back to my main point – all hypothetical agreements on the terrible infrastructure that is the Inquisition’s home base aside – sometimes that girl terrifies me and I wonder just how in the world the human race has managed to come out as the genocidal winners over hers. Also I don’t know why everyone says she’s cute and adorable and _sweet_. I just watched her set five people on fire and skip over their bodies. _Skip_. Like she was playing a demented game of hopscotch.”

“The ground was cold and her boots were damaged. I’d skip, too.” Krem points out. “Besides, I just watched you beat a man to death with a stick.”

Dorian lets out a horrified noise. “This isn’t a _stick_. It’s a work of _art_. It’s a finely crafted – “

Dorian can visibly see the other two tuning him out.

“The point is, I don’t know how she can look like that and make people want to coo and fuss over her when she’s also responsible for this.” Dorian waves his hand at their general surroundings.

“To be fair to her, she’s only directly responsible for like – a fifth of it.” Krem says. “And then we came in after her and reality hit these poor bastards like a ton of bricks.”

“She’s not a super spy.” Bull says. “Speaking as what could probably be equivalent to a super spy, I’m saying this from experience. She’s not a super spy and the reason why you’re offended is because no one thinks you’re cute.”

Krem snickers and Dorian huffs.

“I don’t _need_ anyone to think I’m cute because I _know_ I’m _wonderful_. Also someone gave the girl gum again. We still haven’t taught her not to swallow it, there are _rules_ in place for a reason!” Dorian waves an arm, sparks trailing from his fingers, “Otherwise we descent into complete and total _anarchy!”_

“Sure, sure.” Bull says, whispering to Krem, “He’s pissed because he lost in today’s kill count.”

“Probably doesn’t help that he insists on wearing nice clothes when we go into combat.”

-

“You know what I think is neat?” Lavellan asks as they all pile into the car at an ungodly hour in the morning. They still haven’t found Cole and Varric is nearly completely certain that Dorian scared the kid into hiding so he couldn’t come.

Amusement parks aren’t that bad.

“What?” Bull says, because he’s nice like that, and even lets their little terrifyingly active for ass in the morning elven boss bounce over him and onto the opposite seat.

“The idea that there’s a place you go to – built for this one purpose! – of play. You _pay_ to _play_. That’s ridiculous but also somehow very profitable.” She says.

Technically they’re not even paying because – by complete _accident,_ or, depending on who you talk to, voodoo magic – Lavellan saved the life of a guy who knew a guy who owned a thing who owed so and so a favor, something, something, something.

Two bar fights and a broken nose – on Rocky’s behalf – later, they’re all packing into cars – regular cars, not those huge, loud, monster trucks Cassandra calls _acceptable transportation_  – to a theme park.

Varric can’t see how this can go wrong because his eyes are closed and he didn’t agree to go, but woke up locked into the back seat of the van. Literally locked into it.

If Cassandra is going down, apparently she’s bringing everyone down with her.

Dorian is in the next van with the saner half of their group because - “I don’t _hate_ myself, Varric. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lavellan is now going on about something, something, something – pointing out in that really sweet and bright way of hers, the downfalls to capitalism and the confusion over why they have to pay for water and why the bartering system doesn’t work.

“I didn’t even get to eat.” Varric says, because the last thing he remembers is lying down on his sad, standard issue, scratchy material cot and then he woke up _here_.

“No one got to eat.” Blackwall says, “You’re stopping for food on the way.”

“I notice you aren’t getting into the van.” Varric says as Blackwall hands Bull a giant bag – and Varric isn’t going to lie, it looks like those bags moms carry with them. The ones with juice boxes, changes of clothing, diapers, toys, the whole shebang.

“I know better than to get into strange unmarked vans.” Blackwall deadpans, and makes sure Cassandra is talking to Cullen before handing Varric and Bull large steel thermoses. “There’s some whiskey in there, too.”

Lavellan abandons her chatter to momentarily look in their direction. Bull unscrews the cap on his and tilts his thermos at her. She leans in and takes a curious sniff before wrinkling her nose and returning to her self-guided revelations on capitalism. Varric feels like just listening to her talk to herself can unveil deep and hidden secrets of the world.

It’s a lucky thing that she doesn’t actually _like_ coffee because she’s talking this fast about such deep things at – _death_ in the morning, Varric doesn’t think he could handle her with any more pep in her system.

“There are five more seats in this van.” Varric says.

“No one is suicidal enough to ride shotgun with Cassandra.” Blackwall says, “Let alone with Lavellan in the back seat on the way to a theme park who’s mascot is a giant deer with bows on its antlers. Bull and Lavellan share the middle because he can keep her under control. As soon as Rylen’s done doing security checks with the other vehicles he’s going in back with you because he’s one of the few good men with his head on straight capable of handling any of you.”

“I don’t know if I’m impressed or offended with how thorough this is.”

“Go with impressed. Otherwise you’ve one long day of being offended ahead of you.”

“I don’t know, Hero, with the Seeker over here I think I’m in for one long day of being offended either way.”


	20. Chapter 20

“You know,” Lavellan says as they’re waiting for one of Sera’s informants to make the drop. “I never wanted to be a cult leader, but now I am and it’s sometimes fun but mostly no one lets me do things anymore and it isn’t fun.”

Blackwall hums. “You have an image to maintain.”

“Yes, but what image is that? It seems a rather boring image.” Lavellan says, idly playing with the paper wrapper of a straw. Blackwall doesn’t know where she picked it up, considering they’re in the middle of a scrap metal yard and the nearest fast food place was about five minutes by truck. “Can’t play in mud, can’t skip over puddles, can’t climb trees for fun, can’t swim in clean looking bodies of water, can’t hold hands with people where people who aren’t Inquisition can see, can’t skip, can’t do anything. It’s like they want me to be _boring_. Or dead. But dead seems counter productive.”

Blackwall grunts, adjusting his goggles. Sera’d said the drop is going to be any minute now.

“Can’t play on people’s phones in public.” Lavellan continues to tick off, “I have to have my instagram and internet histories monitored. I can’t be seen eating bananas. I don’t know about that last bit, bananas are an excellent source of potassium, Blackwall, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well now you do. Also I have to wear a bra everywhere. That’s weird. I don’t feel like I need the support, Blackwall. Do you think I need the support?”

Thank the Maker for small mercies.

“That’s the drop.” He says, “Let’s go start the car.”

Lavellan jumps off the vent she was sitting on and he offers her his hand. She grins and at night her eyes get a little eerie sometimes, but otherwise she’s like a very lanky and pointy child. She links their hands together, idly swinging them as they move towards the fire escape.

He’s under strict instructions not to let her disappear and he figures that if she disappears at least there’s a chance she’d drag him with her if he’s holding onto her.

That and he _worries_.

She’s a wee lass. Old enough to vote in Orlais and old enough to drive a car and smoke and drink. But she’s still wee and parts of him worry and parts of him are skeptical because she leads them into war.

But she also leads them out of war, too, so he supposes that’s why he’s still here. In many more ways than one.

He climbs down first, and her feet and hands are silent on the creaky metal.

“What’s this drop about again?” She asks when they get to the bottom of the fire escape.

“Information on some spies within the Chantry.” Blackwall replies.

“Oh, right. Our spies or someone else’s spies or Chantry spies?”

“Chantry spies.” Blackwall replies, opening the back of the van for her to slip in. There are two Inquisition scouts and one soldier in the back and they all great her with a sort of respect and warmth that Blackwall doesn’t usually associate with military leaders and their military.

Cult leader fits, though. Blackwall closes the door after her and goes around to the driver’s seat. She might not like it, but she’s stuck with it.

-

Education, Solas thinks as he checks over her lines, relies on injustice.

That’s how people learn. It’s not _fair_ if someone knows something you don’t. So you learn it, too. If someone does better than you, is better at surviving than yours, you take that knowledge for your own.

There are people with knowledge and without, people who pass it on and people who don’t. It’s discriminatory. Like wealth.

Someone with and someone without, someone without at the mercy of someone with. And it’s all within the control of those _with_ and there’s no changing it.

Lavellan’s writing is illustrative of this. He can tell immediately which clan she’s from. Her writing, limited as it is, is beautiful, The script flows and links with flourishes that belong on invitations to balls and summons from Queens.

Her vocabulary belongs to academies of magic and stories of old.

But it is stilted, choppy. She can’t piece the words together, not on paper. She is eloquent in her own way, when she speaks. But on paper the words don’t come together. He can see how she’s just copying things by rote. She’s memorized the images of the words and associated them with vague ideas. Like they’re runes and they can work together with interpretation and guessing.

Runes and words aren’t the same.

There are so many holes in her education, and places where she excels so wonderfully. The differences are jarring.

He thinks that perhaps he can right some of these wrongs with his time with her. Not all of them, no. Some of them aren’t his to right – and some of them. Some of them.

Ignorance is a right that is sometimes earned and necessary to continue.

Perhaps he is just selfish.

He listens to her pen glide over paper, she’s learning how to control it better – she no longer produces such hard lines.

“Perhaps a break.” He says and she glances up at him -

“After this.” She says and he is so _proud_ of her. So proud that it aches sometimes.

She would not have been born if his mistakes weren’t so disastrous. But she was born into this colorless world and she lived and thrived and she is succeeding where he thought he failed.

-

“It’s so odd.” Lavellan says as they’re watching their people load the Venatori research into trucks to send back to base for analysis. Cullen breathes in deep and the lyrium around them makes his head hurt like nothing else but it’s getting better. Or perhaps he’s getting used to it.

“How so?”

“Biological warfare.” She says. “Bombs. Guns. Computers. Satellites. You people have all of this – cars and freeways and lights and refrigerators. And it’s all so fascinating I don’t understand any of it but I want to. But none of your people know how it all works. They just assume it must because it’s there. You don’t know anything.”

She doesn’t say it to hurt or offend and Cullen knows that but he can’t help the reflexive attempt to defend himself that springs to his lips.

She goes on before he can, though -

“I asked Leliana how microscopes were made and she didn’t know. There were at least twelve of them in the room and loads of people all around me and not one of them could tell me how they were made. They vaguely could tell me how they worked, but they needed to ask each other about it. I asked Dorian about how leather is made in mass quantities and in so many types but he couldn’t tell me about it. I asked Varric about the binding on books and he didn’t know anything. You have so many things and you don’t know how any of it is made or where it comes from or how it came to be.” She frowns. “It’s so strange – the ignorance of these people that goes hand in hand with.” She waves at the lab. “This. I mean. I don’t know anything at all but the things I do know, I know well. I know exactly how my clothes were obtained – when I was with my clan. I know where the halla come from and I know how we got our things and our names and I know the histories of everyone in the clan. I know why medicines work and how they work and things like that.”

“Perhaps it’s that there’s just too much to know.”

“I’m not saying you should know all of it.” She says, rocking on her heels. “You aren’t _supposed_ to know everything, Cullen. But you should know something about the world you live in, the things you use and depend upon regularly. Wouldn’t that be common sense? Instead you rely on other people to know it for you, and those people only know pieces so they rely on others to know the other pieces, and in the end, no one really knows anything past a very superficial level of generalized common sense.”

Cullen doesn’t think he’s ever heard  her speak about something so serious for so long. If the lyrium weren’t so close he thinks he’d appreciate it more.

“Never mind.” She says after a short pause. “Forget I said anything.” She sighs, seems to deflate a little. “Maybe I was just angry.”

“At what?”

“It doesn’t matter. You should go lie down, you look very – erm. _Green_.”


	21. Chapter 21

“There were four Venatori supply drops, which – to be frank – no one was expecting considering we were at a shopping mall. _Four_ in a shopping mall. One was at a pretzel stand. Pretzels, Commander, _pretzels_.” Dorian says, flinging Cullen’s door open. “Your intel is _awful_ and the most wonderful leather shop was destroyed as a result of this – this lawless _carelessness_. Make amends. Right now.”

“Intelligence isn’t my field.” Cullen says, and just as Dorian is about to open his mouth to say the obvious quip, “Also compensation isn’t mine, either, it’s our Ambassadors. So I really don’t know why you came in here. Did our ground forces respond poorly? Were there any major oversights?”

“No. They performed _beautifully_.” Dorian looks a bit sour at that. Cullen raises an eyebrow. “I’m here because I very well can’t fling open the Ambassador’s door to yell at her and the spymaster _doesn’t have a door_ because I don’t actually know where she _is_ because _no one knows where she is_ because she’s a _spy master_. You’re the only option I have left.”

“The Inquisitor is technically everyone’s superior officer.” Cullen says. “On the chain of command, you could go straight to her.”

Dorian actually looks a little flabbergasted and a lot annoyed.

“What could she do? I love her, really, and I respect her, truly. But in matters such as these there’s no point in yelling to her about things. Besides, I wouldn’t go to her about this. It’s not _her_ fault.

“But it’s mine?”

“Somehow, someway, yes. I’m certain of it.”

Cullen hums. “Are you sure you just aren’t upset because I have you at check in four?”

Dorian’s eye twitches and he turns around and slams the door shut.

“Colorful man, he is.” Rylen says before leaning over to resume explaining their problems with the supply routes to the camps in the bogs.

“Very.” Cullen agrees. “You think I could get him to learn to knock first?”

“Maybe if you use the words civilized and Tevinter in there somewhere with a comparison to Ferelden.”

-

“One demon invasion is bad.”  Bull says as Lavellan wipes some demon goop off of Cole’s face with her sleeve. “Four is worse. By twenty this is getting ridiculous.”

“At least we’re on a very sharp learning curve.” Lavellan says. “And the demons aren’t.”

Solas nudges through some goop at the side with his staff, humming whenever he finds something interesting. He’s finding a lot of interesting. Considering how many demons came out of that rift before they managed to get it closed, Bull would be a little bit annoyed if he _weren’t_ finding anything good.

“And no one got hurt this time.” She says.

Bull thinks she needs to re-evaluate her definition of hurt. Then again – maybe it’s the strange definition that keeps her peppy. He supposes if  he considered them _hurt_ every time they stepped off base, it’d be something of a complete downer.

Cole sneezes when she wipes the bridge of his nose.. It’s adorable.

Lavellan apologizes and offers him a packet of tissues from her pocket. It is somehow remarkably clean and pristine, despite the state of her uniform. Demon blood and all that.

Bull sighs, rolls his shoulders and mentally adjusts his internal compass and map to compensate for their slight detour. They shouldn’t be too much off schedule. Cullen was smart enough to give them extra time.

They go on enough of these little side trips that command expects them to happen by now.

“We lost the car.” Cole says.

“I’d rather we lost the car than we lost each other.” Lavellan replies which is good thinking, except they also lost their radio.

The ambassador is going to have kittens. This wasn’t in the budget.

Judging from the interested noises Solas is making, they’ve probably found enough stuff to put on the black market to make up for it, though.

It all works out in the end. Somehow.

Lavellan helps Cole stand up – or more like, she holds out her hand and Cole looks at it like it’s something from outer space and takes it and stands up while holding her hand.

“Off we go.” Lavellan declares and walks in the right direction – her internal compass and map are terrifyingly accurate, probably more so than Bull’s – swinging Cole’s hand with hers.

-

“I did not wish to be a dark god. But it appears that now, I am not even that. There are those that question if I am a god or a demon or other.” Solas says and perhaps someday he will be able to say this to her face. But for now, afar, in dreams, he can pretend he is. “I have been negligent. If I am a god, then truly it was my duty to our people to protect them from this fate, this world. Instead I have crushed them under the heel of it. Ir’abelas, da’len. This was not the world I wished for any of you.”

In this dream – and she is so very clever, his little da’len, in another time, when he was another man, a different sort of God, he would have claimed her as his. Brushed his vallaslin over her skin and made her one of his sentinels. She has the wolf in her. Tricky and clever and so very, very bright that the shadows she casts are velvet. She’s quick to learn how to manipulate the Fade in her dreams, how to pull memories and experiences from the world around her.

He has to be careful with these little confessions. She might hear him, otherwise.

Even in dreams the confessions linger. He has to hide them and make sure she doesn’t stumble upon the memory within the memory of a dream.

Perhaps he should record a message to leave for her – hide it somewhere away from the spymaster. He’s only deceived them into thinking he’s passable with a computer.

Binary and code are all about order and wording and patterns.

The Dread Wolf lives and breathes with twisting, bending, and manipulating those.

But what could he say?

Apologize? For what? He does not regret any of his actions.

He does not regret his role in the Fall so much as the failed outcome. Corypheus was out of his control.

He will never regret teaching her and being her hahren. He is the wolf, he is selfish.

“You are loyal to your gods.” He says. In the dream world she chases after wisps, looking underneath stones and tree roots, in branches, and around floating objects, laughing whenever she finds one. Only for it to disappear, pop up elsewhere and goad her into finding it again. “Would you be loyal to me?”

It is a foolish question.

All of the gods. She fears and respects and loves them all. Even him.


	22. Chapter 22

“Well, we can’t all enjoy movies about dumb sports.” Dorian says, “Especially not dumb sports played in _one country_ in the entire world.”

“Football is a great sport, there’s tactics to it and everything.” Bull says. “Ask Cullen.”

“Cullen thinks that _curling_ counts as a sport. I’m not asking him anything. That’s not even the point of this. Lavellan, did you enjoy the movie?”

“I liked the part with the dog.” Lavellan says from the backseat of the car, Dorian and Bull share a look before Dorian turns around to look at her. She’s fiddling with the wrapper of her straw, and has for the most part, ignored the toy that comes with her Cheery Meal. Dorian knew that was going to happen, but Bull insisted that buying Cheery Meals is a Charger Tradition and that Grim could always just add the toy to his collection, later.

“There was no dog.” Dorian says.

“Yes there was.” Lavellan says, frowning as she slowly makes knots in the paper. “The kind Vivienne thinks are nice. The ones named after butterflies.”

“Papillion.” Bull supplies. “There was no dog.”

“Yes there was.” Lavellan looks up and frowns at them. “About forty six minutes in, at the bottom left corner of the screen there was a woman holding a Papillion in her arms and the dog shows up whenever they cut to that section of the scene. The dog has an orange collar. Bull, turn the car around.”

“What, why?” Dorian asks, baffled.

“We have to watch it again.” Lavellan demands, “If you didn’t see the dog we have to watch it again.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” Bull hums.

“You just want to watch it again.” Dorian says, “If you weren’t driving I’d hit you.”

“Too bad your license isn’t valid in Ferelden, isn’t it, Tevinter? You wanna go back boss? You wanna see it again?”

“I will throw myself out of this damned car.”

“Go ahead and do it. No one’s stopping you.”

“Dorian, you have to see the dog.”

“Fasta vass, the things I do for you.” Dorian opens the glovebox, “I’m taking your flask.”

-

“Why does this doll – who is, according to this packaging, which is, extremely _pink –_ a mother if she possesses no cunt?” Lavellan asks, and Cullen goes extremely red in the face and lets out a pathetic little wheeze. Dorian whacks him on the back, and Cullen ends up having to turn around and cough. “And why does her partner have no cock? Explain, please.”

“Have you been talking to Sera again?” Leliana asks.

“No, I am curious. There were extra dolls from the toy drive and Josephine said I may play with some of them.” Lavellan says, “And the packaging says that she is a mother and there is even a little baby in the stroller – also, explain why she is always on her toes. Why? Is she alert and waiting for something?”

“The phrase _keep you on your toes_ is not literal.” Dorian says. “We went over idioms already.”

Lavellan mulishly stabs at a baby carrot that bounces out of her salad bowl and away from the plastic tongs of her fork.

“That doesn’t explain why her feet look broken. And why do all of the dolls have blue eyes? The only person I know with blue eyes is Cole, and that’s only if you look at them in a certain light. Otherwise they’re just the color of dreams.”

Dorian turns and mouths _the color of dreams?_ to Cassandra who ups the volume on whatever she’s listening to on her earphones. Dorian is tempted to steal one of the earbuds to see what it is, if he wouldn’t lose his hand for it.

It’s probably an audiobook. A _naughty_ audiobook.

“Dolls don’t exactly boast themselves as anatomically correct.” Leliana says.

“Cullen’s dolls are anatomically correct.”

Every head at the table swings expectantly towards Cullen who enters another coughing fit.

“They aren’t _mine_.” Cullen wheezes out. “Leliana keeps putting them in my office when I’m not looking.”

“Where’s your proof?”

“You keep erasing the footage!” Cullen protests as Leliana smirks at him around a bite of what could be a heart she cut out of someone’s chest with her bare hands.

It’s Leliana. _Anything is possible_.

“One of them is of Hawke.” Lavellan adds in.

“Curly.” Varric sounds affronted, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“They aren’t mine! Andraste – _stop looking at me like that, Dorian_.”

“I didn’t know you had it in you.” Dorian says, tapping his fingers on his folded arms, “I’m seeing you in a whole new light, Commander. It’s a flattering light. It works well with your angles.”

Cullen presses his thumb between his brows. “This is the reason why I always look haggard.”

“Cullen are you upset with me?” Lavellan asks, sounding forlorn as she bends a little to try and peer into Cullen’s face.

“No.” Cullen sighs, “I am not upset with you.”

“It’s like being angry at a wall, really.” Dorian says, Cassandra snorts.

“A wall that cries.” She says.

“Too true.”

-

“Do you think babies think things?” Lavellan asks, presenting a baby to Bull for inspection. Bull hums, looking the baby over politely before gently nudging Lavellan back towards her original task of dressing the babies in their onesies. The baby coos and gurgles, grasping at Lavellan’s nose as she plays with his toes.

“Sure.” Bull says, and carefully reaches around her to scoop back a baby from getting too far away, placing the baby in his lap with the others. It’s not the worst way to spend bed rest and medical leave. Granted, it’s not the best way, either.

The best way doesn’t really involve babies, so much as the process of making a baby.

Bull isn’t going to be saying this to the Boss’ face, though.

“Does your super spy training work on babies?” Lavellan asks.

“What you mean by that?”

“You can read my mind with your super spy training. Can you read a babies’ mind?”

Bull hums. “You’re a little different than a baby, boss.”

Granted, most of the time she vaguely thinks along the same simple lines as a kid. There are just layers. _A lot of layers_. A lot of simple layers to make things complicated.

Kids usually just tend to have the surface stuff.

The Boss has that surface stuff and a lot of things underneath.

“But _could you_?”

“Babies don’t exactly think in words.”

“So you _can_ read minds.”

“I read _people_.” Bull spreads a hand on the back of her neck. “Not to rush you, but you’ve got ten babies left to take care of.”

“Since you’re on medical leave, do you count as one of the babies I’m watching?” Lavellan asks, turning around to pick another baby out from the vague pen made by Bull’s legs.

“I’m a babe, I know.” Bull replies. “But I think it’s more like I’m watching you. Babe.”

“I’m not a babe.” Lavellan says, kissing the new baby on the cheek and getting a baby-giggle for it. “I’m a Poppy. Varric says so.”


	23. Chapter 23

“No one answers!” Josephine snaps, “This is unacceptable behavior. What is the point in giving everyone an extension and a desk if none of them will answer their phones?”

“That’s why you send birds.” Leliana replies, humming as she goes through innumerable amount of brown folders in the basket next to Josephine’s desk that demand her attention, “Much harder to ignore a bird.”

“Terrible work ethic.” Josephine presses her fingers to her temples, “I can’t get hold of anyone. How does anyone expect me to get anything done of they aren’t answering?”

“You could send Lavellan to bring your messages.” Leliana suggests. “It’s incredibly hard to ignore a message that’s being handed to you straight from the mouth of the Herald of Andraste, even if that message is _fill out your paid time off requisition forms_.”

“That’s an abuse of authority.”

“Well that’s what I’ve been having her do whenever people try to ignore _my_ messages. Cullen’s started doing it, too. And it gives her exercise. Burns off all that energy she normally spends walking up and down mountains in blizzard conditions.” Leliana muses, “Why do they always address these to you? You aren’t payroll.”

“I know, but payroll is incompetent and needs to be replaced.” Josephine snaps. “And you both need to stop making the Herald of Andraste do menial tasks – and for that matter we need to officially register her as head of our organization.”

“Head or mascot?” Leliana asks, “It’s an honest question, Josie, don’t give me that look. I’m sure the girl wouldn’t even be offended by it.”

“Our _leader_ who makes decisions that we listen to.” Josephine corrects. Her computer chimes, drawing her attention and earning a frustrated half-grunt. “Out of office! Again! Is there anyone actually in their office aside from me today? Who approved this? I didn’t approve this. _If I don’t approve time off it doesn’t happen_.”

“Lavellan probably did.” Leliana says, “If someone were to ask her to sign something she’d do it.”

“You get out.” Josephine says, tossing some paper at Leliana, who neatly sidesteps and smirks when said papers flutter down at the Commander’s feet.

Josephine lets out a small noise of surprise and horror.

Cullen looks between the two of them, raises his hands and turns around, “I know when my presence is unwanted.”

“Not you!” Josephine says, “Get in here and close the door behind you. I am having an _off day_.”

“No, no.” Cullen says, placing some papers in one of the metal organizers next to her door, “I’ll leave you to it. These are just some requisitions. I needed to stretch my legs.”

“Such fine looking legs they are.” Leliana says, and is ignored by both Josephine and Cullen.

“Don’t be stubborn, I’m not cross with you.” Josephine says, waving at him to come back. “And I have things for you to sign off on.”

“I thought you sent everything over already.” Cullen frowns, turning around to look at her, closing the door behind him and going to pick up the previously thrown papers as Leliana thumbs through some files. “You’re normally very good at that, Lady Montilyet.”

“No need for formalities, good Commander.” Leliana says, “Not when she’s the treasurer of your fanclub.”

“Interim treasurer.” Josephine amends and Cullen sighs. “You know I’m only doing it because I owe Leliana a favor.”

“Of course.” Cullen says, leaning his hip against her desk, “What do you need signed?”

“A marriage contract to the highest bidder.” Leliana quips.

“Some things were sent to me instead of to you. I just opened them this morning.” Josephine hands over a small stack of folders to him which he opens and grimaces at, “And yes, I’m sure they aren’t mine.”

“They might be Lavellan’s to sign off on, to be honest.” Cullen says, “I’ll look them over and make sure.”

“Well, you’re signing for her by default anyway. So it really doesn’t matter.” Leliana points out. “At least until her paperwork goes through.”

“It’ll never get through.” Cullen snorts.

“The King of Ferelden owes me a favor. And I’m sure we can do something about Orlais.”

“Who _doesn’t_ owe you a favor?”

-

“There had been many theories about how she had been murdered, is what they’re going to say.” Dorian says, “None of them will ever guess that it was by accident.”

“Death by bear.” Sera says.

“Death by _sharing_.” Varric says, “She’s too many places at once.”

“Death by exposure.” Blackwall says as he passes them to get some water from the fridge. “We just found her sleeping on the roof of the garage. Puddle of drool and all.”

“Huh. The Seeker was looking for her all morning.” Varric muses.

“Ah, but she was only looking in _reasonable_ places, wasn’t she?” Dorian says, leaning against the counter as he waits for the pizza in the microwave oven to be done. “As if the word _reasonable_ could be applied to anything anymore.”

“True.” Sera muses, swiping a carrot through something green and orange and vaguely bubbling. Probably the aftermath of one of her experiments. Probably part of one of her current experiments. “She alright, though?”

“Cross at being woken, I think.” Blackwall says, “Mind you, she’s not good at being cross. It mostly amounts to her making sad eyes at anyone who passes and bothering the boy.”

Dorian snorts, putting on oven mitts to remove the pizza, “As if Cole would know what to do.”

Sera raises her arms over her bubbling mystery dip, “Don’t talk about that thing around me. It spoils the air.”

“Your poisonous sewage waste is what poisons the air.” Dorian returns, “And just for that, you get none of this.”

“I don’t want your shit pizza. Who puts grilled chicken on pizza? No one. Just posh people like you. White sauce. _White sauce_. More like fuck sauce.” Sera makes an obscene gesture as Dorian rolls his eyes, and sets the pizza on the rack.

“Real mature, Sera. And you wonder why Josephine never takes you seriously.”


	24. Chapter 24

“Forgive me.” Blackwall says and Lavellan just looks at him, and the world feels like it’s crumbling about their ears but it isn’t, not yet. Just his world. Just his own, private little simulacra. Him and her, and this place where no one knew and where he could _pass_. “Forgive me.”

Lavellan’s hands are cold on his face, and somehow that’s better than if they were warm. Her fingers are slow and careful as she slides them through his beard, over the sides of his jaw, thumbs slow and cool as she sweeps arcs over his bones and underneath his eyes. Knowing him, seeing him and all the shit he is.

“I am angry with you.” She says, _disappointed_ hangs in the air, a word too heavy for him to bear right now. And she must know it because she doesn’t say it. The handcuffs at his wrists are just as cold as her hands. “But I cannot forgive you.”

He knew. He fucking _knew_. Why should he have hoped?

Why did he hope?

Blackwall – Rainier – tries to look down but her hands wont let him. It’d be easy to break away, but it isn’t. Her hands are fine and young and the threat of that single word still hangs over his head like the sword of Damocles.

“I cannot forgive you because I am not the one you need to ask forgiveness from.” Lavellan says, forcing him to meet her eyes with the sheer _gravity_ of her presence.

Somewhen else, she’d have been some Elvhen princess or Queen or something like that. Before the fall of that Empire. Who knows?

She was born for that kind of greatness.

“Blackwall.” She says, “I am angry with you, but it is not me whom you need to ask forgiveness from. My anger will pass, my sorrow will pass. It is mine, private and something you cannot touch because it is _mine_. Such as your shame is yours, your guilt is yours, something I cannot hold for you. The forgiveness you seek is not something you can find in me, but something you must find in yourself. Do you understand?”

No. Maybe. Something in him responds to that, to those words. Something in him knows those words.

Maybe they are the words he was looking for all along.

“Yes.”

It isn’t forgiveness or absolution, but it’s a chance. A chance he doesn’t deserve, but still a chance.

She doesn’t smile but the word disappears and he can breathe.

“Then let’s get you home.” She says, “You’re coming home.”

-

“Why are we decorating a tree, Dorian?”

“Because Josephine wants this place to look offensive.” Dorian replies, “Also, I feel that since you have a castle you ought to at least make an effort to make it look dignified.”

“By putting glitter on a tree?”

“It’s a human thing.”

“As you say.” Lavellan says, “Can we put flowers on the tree?”

“Perhaps not this one. Too close to the fire.” Dorian muses, “How about the one next to your throne?”

“I still don’t know why I have a throne. Thrones are for people with crowns. Varric says so.”

Dorian turns around on the ladder and touches her nose, she sneezes and glitter disperses like a little cloud of fairy dust. Dorian swears that every day they slip further and further into some sort of Neverland-esque dream.

“Cole gave you a flower crown.” Dorian says, “Where did you put it? Or did it die?”

Lavellan laughs, it’s a sweet laugh that makes Dorian think of tooth decay.

“Don’t be silly, Dorian. Those flowers will never die.” Lavellan says before prancing off to ask Sera and Rocky about the tree they’re decorating across the hall.

“What does that mean?” Dorian asks, turning to Grim who’s been holding the ladder the whole time. Grim shrugs, which Dorian translates as _best not to know_ , and hands him a lace ornament. “But what does that _mean_? She has immortal plants, now? _Why?”_

-

As soon as she walked into the room she felt tension, and walked out immediately.

“I don’t deserve this.” Lavellan says as she walks out, ignoring Dalish and Grim’s pleading looks. “I’m a good person and I did all of my paperwork and Josephine was very pleased with me, and she even let me have some of her special candies. I don’t deserve this.”

“Please?” Dalish whispers, even as Lavellan closes the door, “ _Please?”_

“They need your help.” Cole says, “Things won’t be settled without you.”

“No. I’m having a nice day.” Lavellan replies, taking Cole’s arm and lacing it with her own, “Maybe tomorrow.”

Cole makes a soft noise of distress. Lavellan kisses him on the cheek and shushes him.

“Tomorrow.” She says, “Maybe they’d have worked it out by then?”

“I don’t think so.” Cole murmurs softly, idly playing with his own fingers, “Cassandra and Cullen aren’t normally that upset with each other. They’re good friends. Best friends.”

Lavellan hums, “I didn’t know they were that close.”

“They’re embarrassed to say.” Cole explains, earnest as he turns to look at her, “A pillar of strength, admiration, _I shall not falter while you stand here with  me_ , thank you, I am saved, lean on me, together we will get through this, Andraste guides our hands, _it shall be done_ , the song is quiet, now. It hurts less.”

“Who is that?”

“Both.” Cole says, “They’re good for each other. They know in ways no one else can know. It helps, having that kind of knowing. It helps them. Because they just look and see and are seen.”

“Then if they’re that close it’s all the more important for them to work it out themselves.” Lavellan says, “It’s not my place to fix every problem. Would you like some chocolate, Cole? It’s Josephine's special ones, straight from Antiva. There’s strawberry cream inside.”

-

In all of his years, he doesn’t think he has ever seen or met someone like her. It is unlikely he ever will again.

She is special, unique – a world and universe in and of herself.

Lavellan sing-hums, the words nonsensical and meaningless but somehow cheery and soothing as her fingers quickly weave long stalks of tree fronds together, creating a basket.

It is as if she came out of his memories, sometimes. Her clothes are different, and her speech is different, but sometimes the way she _moves_ -

Solas kneels next to her and she smiles while humming and without thought holds the basket out to him.

He takes it.

(That is all he does.)

Lavellan hums as she pulls more fronds and he wonders where she got them. She begins weaving again and her work is quick, her fingers are agile and practiced.

“What is this for?” He asks, slowly turning the basket in his hands over. It’s light, smooth. He runs the pad of his thumb over the silken and waxy surface of the weave.

She shrugs. “You never know when you’ll need a basket. Cassandra can use this one for her yarn. Did you know that she’s teaching Cullen to knit? Relieves stress, she says. And it helps him concentrate on his shaking hands.”

Solas hums, “No, I didn’t know.”

“I think it’s nice. Everyone should have a hobby.” Lavellan says.

“Is your weaving?”

“No.” Lavellan laughs, fingers fast as she creates a patchwork of green, “It’s fun, but no. I like to collect things.”

“People?” Solas asks.

“Friends.” She says, “Stories of friends.”

Mythal would have loved her. Sylaise, too – before she. Before she became what she became.

They all would have loved her. Before they -

Before.

Solas blinks and imagines wiping her face clean. A gift he could never offer.

Solas is careful as he holds the basket between his hands, lest they shake.


	25. Chapter 25

“I don’t know if I like musicals or not.” Lavellan says, “Josephine took me to one but I’m not sure if I enjoy them.”

“It’s because no one else reacts to the singing and monologue, isn’t it?” Solas asks, “Think of them as the same as Eddas.”

“But the Eddas are poems.” Lavellan frowns, “And they tell stories. They aren’t _thoughts_. Sera had me watch musicals on the television, too. Those made even less sense because everyone knows the words, even random people on the street and dancing like that in the middle of doing things in a busy city seems very dangerous, hahren.”

“It’s staged.”

“ _Still_.”

“Not every story can be as authentic and realistic as you want it to be.” If so, Solas thinks, then you would not wear those marks so boldly, so proudly. If so, I would not be hiding my face.

Lavellan frowns, brows drawn downwards before she sighs.

“I like the costumes, sometimes.” Lavellan says. “And I like that Josephine likes them. So I guess I like musicals.”

A simple enough thought process. Solas smiles and hands her the scissors as she starts opening another box.

“An acquired taste, I’m sure. At the very least, it was better than when Sera took you to the rave, wasn’t it?”

“It was loud and bright and I got lost. I ended up on someone’s shoulders and thrown over a crowd!” Lavellan says, “But people kept giving me glow sticks and that was nice.”

-

“This is nice.” Lavellan says and, really, Vivienne is just pleased that they’ve finally gotten her out of that paper mache travesty she called a _dress_. It looked like it was starting to grow its own appendages.

It was very _earthy_.

“It feels like touching sleepiness.” Lavellan says, rubbing her sleeves against her cheeks.

“I’m pleased you enjoy it, darling.” Vivienne says, “And the dress?”

Lavellan twists a little, the hem of the dress billowing out causing her to laugh.

“It’s nice.” Lavellan says, tugging at it, holding it out in front of her, “It’s pretty. I feel very fancy. Are we going somewhere fancy? No one told me we had something fancy to do today.”

Only Lavellan would consider a long sleeved shirt paired with a dress fancy.

“Just shopping, my dear. Just shopping. Give us a spin, let’s see how it moves.”

Lavellan spins, and resembles the flower that Varric keeps calling her, as well as a mix between a falling petal, a spinning flower, and a particularly beautiful jellyfish.

“Very nice.” Vivienne says, “Why don’t you try on the next one?”

“Alright.” Lavellan says, still looking down as she half-spins her way back behind the dressing room curtain.

“This is all very nice, but I’m not sure we can afford all of this.” Josephine whispers to her when she joins Vivienne on the bench in the dressing room. “We’ve only just started getting real donations.”

Vivienne holds up her card, “The Inquisitor is in dire need of a wardrobe change. Consider it a gift from myself _to_ myself, if it makes you feel any better.”

Josephine laughs. “You are too good, Madame.”

“Not at all. You’ll notice that I don’t have shoes on our agenda for today.” Vivienne turns and places a hand on Josephine’s knee. “You too, dear. Go get yourself something nice. The Ambassador to the Inquisition is at the forefront of the battlegrounds, as it were. You simply _must_ make a stunning impression. And you look like you could use a nice sweater. That castle is incredibly drafty. And retail therapy really does work wonders.”

“Now you really are being too good.” Josephine holds up her hands, “I couldn’t possibly.”

“The Inquisitor would be very upset if you were to catch a cold.” Vivienne raises an eyebrow and holds the card out to Josephine, “And who do you think is going to end up having the little dear buzzing around, anxious and generally curious, as she makes cold remedies?”

Josephine winces and reluctantly takes the card. “I see your point.”

“Of course you do.” Vivienne laughs, “That’s why you’re so good at your job.”

-

“Mother?”

“Daughter?” I laugh quietly and her laugh is warm and fills me with warmth and it doesn’t matter if it’s cold and foggy and wet because now it is warm.

“Mother, why do we call the humans _shem_?” I ask, and her fingers through my hair are gentle, they feel good over my scalp. My hair feels fine, like silk when she touches it. Precious. She braids my hair every other morning and someday I will be good enough to braid it myself. My fingers are too clumsy. My fingers do not make my hair feel fine. They make my hair feel like rough yarn, frayed and easily scattered.

She braids beads and bone into it, slowly, carefully, lovingly. Flower petal wrapped around strands of hair – a piece of home, forever and always. Raven feathers, to mark my soul and to keep me safe. Eagle to boast – I am my mother’s pride. Small and fierce and growing, fletching growing strong. A piece of an antler, it clicks against the beads when I move my head and mother taps my shoulder to keep me still.

Sometimes it is hard to keep still.

“Because a long, long time ago we were too slow.” She says, “And they were very, very quick to catch onto that. They were quick to move. Quick to take over. Quick to pick the corpses of our people clean and make their pillaged goods their own. It was over so fast.”

“Oh.” I say and I want to look down, her hands in my hair keep me looking forward. I am sad.

Her voice is still warm.

“Not all shems are bad, though.” She tells me and I want to turn but she taps my shoulder again. I won’t make her do it a third time. “There are good people in the world. Listen to what the Keeper says, she speaks true.”

“Then why are we always  moving?” Always running, like the rabbits they call us. I don’t know why it’s an insult.

I like rabbits. They’re cute and their eyes are pretty and their fur is so very, very soft and rabbit stew tastes good.

Something inside me burns – shamed and angry – to be called rabbit. I don’t know why.

Since when?

“Because we don’t know.” Mother says, “And Keeper doesn’t want us to risk finding out. It’s better for all of us, this way.”

“But if we talked to them, we’d know and we could stay and be friends.” I say because that’s how we make friends with other clans.

Mother’s hands circle my neck, fingers along the undersides of my jaw. It tickles.

“My little heart.” She says and kisses the top of my head. “Too trusting. Be careful with that, love. You can’t trust everyone you meet.”

But if we did trust one another we could all be friends.

And then maybe things would change.

 


	26. Chapter 26

“This is the same setup we used when the Divine went for drives. It can repel fire, acid, most alchemical potions, magic bolts from as close as three feet, and dragon-bone reinforced blows.” Leliana says, proud as Lavellan explores the small interior cube, mesmerized as she taps at the enchanted material.

“It’s slow.” Cullen says, “It’s _very slow_.”

“Well, the Divine wasn’t in much of a hurry when she was doing this sort of thing.” Leliana shrugs, “Besides, this is for greeting the masses, not making a getaway.”

“The point is that she’s safe.” Josephine says, “We’ll work on faster armored transport later.”

“She’s got her deer.” Cassandra says and they all turn to look at her. “Have any of you ever watched that deer _run_? It made _Bull_ move. They’ve made steel caps for his antlers. She’s going to need a license for that.”

“Hardly a concealed weapon, Cassandra.”

“It’s a deadly vehicle.” Cassandra says, “She’s going to need a license. Watch, some poor traffic officer is going to try to pull her over while she’s riding. She’ll get a ticket. Maybe end up in jail because she doesn’t have valid paperwork.”

“I feel as though the hand is identification enough.” Cullen replies, arms loosely folded, amused tilt to his mouth. “How many Dalish elves with glowing green marks on their hands can be found wandering about on a giant stag? Surely not that many.”

Leliana smiles into her hood and Josephine laughs. “He has a point. But I’ll – make something happen to get her paperwork going faster. Nothing cuts through red tape like threats of the end of the world, I should think.”

“You’d think so, and yet we’re being audited by every health department in the country.” Cassandra rolls her eyes. “We have other priorities to deal with than making sure electrical sockets are properly covered. What child in this day and age doesn’t know better than to put their finger in a socket?”

“Let’s not tempt the question.” Josephine winces. “If Varric didn’t stop her, she would have climbed the electric fence.”

Everyone in the room lets out a collective sigh-wince.

“Well. She isn’t a child.” Leliana says, “So it’s not as though the safety audits would have prevented that. Cullen, is there an organization dedicated towards making sure buildings are properly outfitted against Dalish curiosity?”

“Not that I’m aware.” Cullen replies, “The closest I can think of is the one for newly surfaced dwarves. Which reminds me that they’ve sent me mail for you, Lady Montilyet, and I do not envy the headache it’s going to be giving you. The packet is about the size of my _ribcage_.”

-

“We can’t get a picture.” Dorian says.

“The one thing you ask him to do,” Vivienne muses, “Notice how he can’t even do that right.”

Dorian ignores her, “We can’t get a picture because between the glowing eyes and the glowing hand the lighting and flash always come out odd. We’d do it without flash, but the castle is too fucking dark. We’d do it outside but – well. _Outside_. You know how she is. And it’s too bright, then, anyway.”

“I should have anticipated this.”

Vivienne pets Josephine’s arm, “You can’t anticipate everything. That would make you the Maker, and to be quite frank, we have enough would-be-Maker’s running around Thedas recently. Though you would be the much preferable one.”

“Ah, you say that like she’d be on our side.” Dorian muses, “Imagine having to fight Josephine. She’d have us all dead before we would even realize what’s happening. The power of the bureaucracy is truly fierce.”

“We need at least one picture of her. How do most elves get their pictures taken?”

“Special lenses.” Dorian says, “I asked Sera. Special lenses, no flash, and careful consideration of the environment. Apparently there’s an entire course dedicated to it in photography schools. Sera worked as a model for one for a while. Part of  a Jenny job, she said.”

“Let me guess, we don’t have these lenses.”

Dorian laughs, “That would make things too easy, wouldn’t it? Not part of the standard set, you have to buy it special, apparently.”

“Explain how Sera is always taking selfies, then.”

“There’s an app for it.” Dorian says, “An illegal app, because the phone companies don’t like you making code that meddles with their software. They want you to buy the _special_ phone that comes in limited editions, and is of course, marked up drastically for something that’s contains what _it should have in the first place_.”

Vivienne clicks her tongue. “As if they expect most elves to be able to buy that.”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Dorian says, “We should work on brow-beating those companies. Point is, can’t get the picture without the special lenses and Sera’s phone doesn’t have quite the quality we want for the picture. Sera’s also offered to use her connections to get us one of the lenses for free, most likely provided we do something about this entire incredibly _ridiculous_ situation.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you overuse the word ridiculous?” Vivienne asks. Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“Any other words that jump to mind in description of our lives?”

Vivienne hums. “Ludicrous. Outrageous”

“Sounds remarkably close to ridiculous.” Dorian says, “But fine, I’ll work that in next time. On a brighter note, we got nearly everyone else’s photographs. Hooray for accountability.”

-

“How many times are you going to push her off or onto or past dangerous things before you realize that I’m only holding back from killing you because for some incomprehensible reason she _likes you?_ ”

“How many times am I going to get her from a dangerous spot to safety and have her be as chipper and fresh as she always is before you realize that _she’s fine, it’s all good, there’s no problem_?”

“You shoved her out of a helicopter!”

“That was under attack! It exploded half a minute later! And she was fine!” Bull gestures in the direction Lavellan was last seen, laughing as she tries to catch a moth with a jar. “She doesn’t even mind! She likes it!”

“Just because she likes it doesn’t mean it’s good for her!” Cassandra snaps, “What if she was injured? What if she died?”

“She didn’t, though, and I knew she wouldn’t. I trust my people.” Bull says, “Don’t you trust yours?”

Cassandra snarls. “You aren’t _my_ people, though! You’re _her_ people!”

“Oh, for fucks sake.” Bull pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re getting nowhere, here.”

“I know!” Cassandra throws her arms up, “I just want you to stop throwing her around!”

“If it gets her safe I’ll do whatever it takes!” Bull says, “I wouldn’t put her in danger.”

“Because she’s your employer?”

“Because she’s my _kadan!”_ Bull says, “And I know you don’t have that word outside of the Qun, but that shit means something, okay? It means something and I’m not going to fuck that up. It’s important. She’s important. And when I’m with her I’m not going to let her be put in danger. Can you at least trust me on that?”

Cassandra breathes in, slow, and closes her eyes. They both hear Lavellan’s faint laughter in the distance, joined in by the barking of some dogs and a low voice that might be Cullen’s.

“Yes.” Cassandra eventually says. “Fine.”


	27. Chapter 27

“We don’t need you giving her an existential sense of humor.” Dorian says, “It’s bad enough that Cole’s got her giggling about – whatever it is they talk about. Something or other about _dots_.”

Solas looks like he’s refraining from rolling his eyes straight out of his skull. Dorian knows the feeling.

It’s a feeling one rapidly becomes acquainted with when _working with someone like Solas_.

“I’m not giving her any sort of humor, according to Varric. He claims to be a reliable source on such matters.” Solas says. “Perhaps she already had a good sense of humor to begin with?”

“Good sense of humor? You’re joking. She’s been laughing at that murder book for a good half an hour. It’s a picture book about murderous birds, and she’s actually deeply entertained by it.”

“A tasteful sense of humor, then.” Solas muses.

“It’s existential bullshit is what it is.” Dorian says, “You’re ruining her. And I’m letting you win by talking this over with you rather than prying that book from her hands and sitting her down with a good satire.”

Solas actually barks out a laugh for that.

“You wouldn’t know good satire if it bit you.”

“I am appalled and outraged. One. You actually sound _happy_ when you laugh, like a normal person. Two. _I live on satire!_ My _life_ is a satire! The mere fact that I’m a Tevinter outcast helping a Dalish elf who’s been proclaimed the _Herald of Andraste_ against Magisters of the Blight proves my _existence_ to be satire! And I’m leaving because I just remembered there’s a sequel to that nightmarish book and I’m not letting her get her hands on it! Good day to you, you bald uncultured _hipster_.”

-

“Well someone must have seen you, because the police are here looking for you.” Cullen says and Varric shrugs.

“I call racism. I’m a dwarf so they think that I gotta be a smuggler.”

“You _are_ a smuggler.” Cullen says, “The only reason why it’s a good thing is because you’re doing it for the Inquisition.”

“Now there’s a dangerous line of thought.” Varric muses.

“I realize that. The point is the police are here and they’re being obnoxious on our doorstep. Talk your way out of it like you normally do, alternatively, smother them in so much bullshit they can’t tell which way is up.” Cullen says, gesturing towards the front gates. “We don’t need this right now.”

Cullen’s normally neat hair is pointing in seven different directions from him running his hands through it stressfully.

Varric snorts, “I feel like you used to have things under much better control in Kirkwall.”

“In Kirkwall you couldn’t take a shit without Meredith knowing. Somehow it was reassuring.” Cullen says. “Here, it’s Leliana and that’s not reassuring, that’s paranoia inducing. Forget it – we don’t have time for this. I have to find the Inquisitor and somehow convince her to be in her dress uniform by eleven.”

“Good luck with that. I might need her to be my witness, by the way. So send her over once you find her and maybe I’ll help you with that.”

“It’s a deal, now get the police out of here. Or at least, somewhere that they’ll be less obvious. And next time, _don’t use the main roads_.”

“Using the main roads are my right as a legal citizen!”

“Not when you’re part of a rebel organization, it’s not. Maker’s breath, _I’ve got to get the Chargers in dress too_.”

-

“Well, there’s nothing left of the money you set aside for us except for budget to buy breakfast.” Cullen says to Josephine, phone between his ear and shoulder. “I think you drastically underestimated the cost of managing Lavellan, half the Chargers, Dorian, and _Madame de Fer_ all at once. We’re just lucky that the Enchanter prefers to use her own money to do things, that Dorian can’t stand to be one upped by her, and both of them spoil Lavellan. In either case, wire some more over as soon as possible.”

“But you can’t be out! There was an extra two thousand. What happened?”

“A lot of things happened. In hindsight, most of it was quite predictable.” Cullen says, “It involves her stag, three different types of apples, a barstool, and heavy bribery.”

“I sent you with them because you’re the only one who can keep them under control.” Josephine reprimands him, and he can hear the faint sounds of her various aides in the background, “You were supposed to keep them under budget, if anything.”

“Look.” Cullen says, reaching over to hold Lavellan’s hair back from falling into her eggs, and starts buttering her toast for her single handedly, Lavellan continues to chatter at Grim and Stitches, leaning over the table to try and rearrange Bull’s breakfast plate into a face while he’s waiting for Dalish and Krem to be done loading the cars. Dorian smirks at him and mouths _mother commander_ at him. Cullen ignores him. “If you didn’t send me, chances are, they’d be in prison. To be frank, this is turning out a lot better than I thought it would have. I kept things down to a bare minimum. It would have been much, much worse if I weren’t here and that isn’t boasting, I promise.”

Josephine’s silence is incredibly skeptical.

“Is she doubting you, Commander?” Vivienne says from the booth behind him, he feels her leaning over to say next to the phone by his ear, “Josephine, darling, you really shouldn’t doubt it. It’s very impressive, truly. He’s incredibly proficient at getting rabble to behave properly.”

“Thank you.” Cullen says.

“Are we adding testimonials to the Commander’s glowing resume?” Dorian asks, leaning across the table, “Josephine, if you can hear me, I want you to know that our Commander saved me from being deported and you really need to pay him more. I mean, more than the zero you’re giving him. Like maybe a twenty in his back pocket? A few tens in his waistband?”

“Money wouldn’t fit in Cullen’s back pocket, it’s too tight.” Lavellan says. Cullen closes his eyes because he can feel _both_ de Fer and Dorian smirking. “I know, I tried to put my hand in once.”

The smirks are ever growing.

“She wanted to get my wallet. Which I don’t carry on base, by the way.” Cullen says, “Josephine, I’m hanging up. I can’t deal with them all with one hand while explaining this mess on the phone in polite words. Wire the money over, _please_. We should be back by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll have a bath and aspirin ready.” Josephine says, “Good luck, Cullen.”

-

 


	28. Chapter 28

“That girl,” Bull says, voice pitched low enough that it makes the fine bones in Solas’ ear move, “Is what you’d get if you took a picture of one long _scream_.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He closes his eyes and Bull’s silence says something, many unavoidable things. The Iron Bull is very good at making the avoidable unavoidable.

“Because I’m pretty good at reading screams, pulling them out of people.” He says, “Sometimes they need a fight. Sometimes they need a fuck. I’m good with both of those. And sometimes they need to forget, which usually goes back to the first two. But this one? This scream? It’s not the kind I can fix. It’s not the kind of scream I’m equipped to handle. It’s the kind _you’re_ going to handle.”

Solas looks at him. Bull is looking straight ahead at where Lavellan is overseeing the loading of their dead into trucks. Sometimes she’ll reach out to a passing gurney, touch a hand hanging off the edge, lift a cloth to look at a face. There’s a new, strained, quality to her own face. Not like she’s about to cry, or sob, or curse. It’s like her skin has been stretched too thin, translucent – and fingers are pushing through. Things are pushing through.

Breaking through.

“Am I?” Solas asks, something inside of him curling in distaste. He does not take orders. Especially not from the Iron Bull.

“Yes.” The Iron Bull says, something stronger and much more resilient than iron. Something that can fight back. “Whether you want to or not, whether you’re equipped for it or not. _You’re going to handle it_.”

“And why is that?” Solas challenges.

Bull turns and looks at him, sharp enough to cut straight through the mask of _Solas_ and straight to heart of the wolf.

“Because she loves you.” Bull says, arms crossed, “In a way  no one else here can touch. She’s made herself yours, and when it comes down to it, you’re the one who has the final say so. You don’t think so? Look at the way she looks at you for approval. In the absence of a father or a Keeper or whatever the fuck she’s used to, she’s picked _you_.”

There is silence that fills the space between Solas’ ears, an echoing dawn of one. Lucky for him, his wit is not always dependent on his brain.

Some things come straight from the heart – the soul.

“And you’re upset that it isn’t you.”

“Yes.” Bull says, shrugs. Like it’s just that easy. Perhaps for him, it is. “Who wouldn’t want to be looked at that way? It’s a lot of power. But it’s also a lot of responsibility. She needs you. Maybe she’ll always need you. And right now you’re going to provide for her.”

Solas waits a beat and Bull continues.

“Just because she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you doesn’t mean I’m not going to rip your spine in half for her if you don’t do right by her’'.”

 _I’d like to see you try_ , Solas thinks but makes his feet move anyway.

The Iron Bull is not wrong, this Solas knows.

He has a duty to right his wrongs by her, even if she does not know she has been wronged. This, too, becomes part of it.

This, too, is part of it.

-

“You trust him, just like that?” Cassandra says, hand loosely curled around Lavellan’s elbow. “He’s a liar! A _compulsive and habitual liar!_ He’s said so himself. Proudly. _Boastfully_. And you trust him?”

“Yes.” Lavellan says. Simple. Honest.

“Why?” Cassandra asks.

“Because trust is important. There is no relationship that can be built without trust.” Lavellan says, “You trusted me with a staff, even when you thought I killed the Divine.” She smiles, sanguine as she waves a hand around the various construction going around the castle, “And now here we are. I’m the Inquisitor and we lead the Inquisition together and we have a castle.”

Cassandra will clarify that _Lavellan_ leads the Inquisition later.

“He lies. All the time. And he’s selfish.”

“Well he’s my friend.” Lavellan says, “And I trust him. I can’t expect him to fight with me if I don’t trust him. I can’t expect to have him by my hearth if I don’t trust him, either. That’s just contradictory, Cassandra. And silly. I think you’re just upset because you want Hawke’s autograph and Varric was probably mean about it.”

There’s that, but Cassandra won’t say that.

“How do you trust so easily?”

“Because I believe that if I trust people they’ll trust me. And when there’s trust you can talk and when you can talk you can solve problems and people won’t be hurt anymore.” Lavellan says. “That way we can all get along and stop killing each other. Or at least, focus on killing the people who do very, very bad things and can’t be talked to.”

“That’s – “

“Childish.” Lavellan says when Cassandra fails to come up with a less insulting word. “Most likely. But children seem to get a lot of things right, you know. I think we should learn from their examples. Sometime’s, it’s just as easy as holding out your hand and saying your name.”

“This is the fate of the _world_.”

“And what better way to save the world is by working with the people who live in it with you? Varric is a good person. He’s here. That counts. It’s something. You have to give him that.”

“I believed him and he _lied_.”

“For good reason. Did you give him a reason to tell the truth?”

“The war! There was an entire _war_.”

“But your reason isn’t the same as his reason. What you care for isn’t the same as what he cares for.” Lavellan says, “Varric cares about good and evil, but he can’t afford to care about the world like you do. You’re used to watching over all of Thedas. Varric knows only his precious people. It’s not your fault, though. You know? Maybe if you each trusted each other more upon meeting it would have turned out different. But who knows? Now is the time for trust. Now, more than ever, we need to be strong together. We cannot be divided. Don’t you think, Cassandra?”


	29. Chapter 29

Outside the rundown cabin where they’ve been setting themselves up for the night, the wind continues to howl mercilessly. This is a scene ripped straight out of one of Varric’s books, and everyone in this room – except Lavellan and Cole – knows it.

The fire crackles, the shadows flicker, and everyone is huddling together for warmth while Cassandra stubborns something into becoming edible.

Lavellan and Cole are merrily ignorant – and _blissfully_ , too – as they press their noses against the glass and frost it with their – her – breath, drawing shapes with their fingers.

“Well.” Dorian says.

Everyone, except the two by the window, turn and glare at him.

“I tried.” Dorian shrugs, drawing a little closer to Varric because all that hair’s got to be good for something.

The door rattles open and Bull ducks, turning his head and reaches out one giant hand to ruffle both Lavellan and Cole’s bent together heads before he bullies the door shut again.

“Nothing.” Bull says to Cassandra, because really. They’re the only two functioning adults in a twenty-five mile or so radius. They’ve _seen_ things, apparently.

“I knew I should’ve stayed on base.” Varric mutters. “I still don’t like the outdoors. This isn’t convincing me to like it.”

“Agreed. Motioned. Forewarded. Ay-ay. Whatever.” Sera says, shoved under Dorian’s arm and latched onto it like a little heat leach. Dorian’s tried to get his arm back four times and the last time ended with teeth.

Varric thinks that Dorian could go for a fifth time because she’s probably bluffing. Dorian doesn’t believe him.

His loss.

Lavellan and Cole are either impervious to the cold – probably – or don’t mind it because of the delight they get in playing with frost – more probable – or just _don’t care in general_  – most likely.

Or a combination of all of the above. It’s anyone’s guess.

Cassandra sighs at whatever she’s managed to make out of rations, melted snow – thank you, Inquisitor –, and fire.

“We should put emergency rations in all the vehicles.” Bull says.

“I’ll make note of it.” Cassandra sighs, “Inquisitor, Cole.”

“I don’t eat.” Cole says.

“Cole needs my breath to draw.” Lavellan says.

“ _Now_.” Cassandra says and Lavellan sighs, breath fanning out on the glass before slinking over to Cassandra.

Bull ruffles her hair, “You’d be sorry if you didn’t eat it warm.”

“I _know_.” Lavellan mumbles. “Fine.”

-

Blackwall drapes a flak jacket over her. It’s not much, but she seems happy with it because she curls up a little and mumbles something about strawberry jam and drops off again.

“She likes the ones in packets.” Cullen says, rubbing his eyes when Blackwall looks over at him. “The ones that come with breakfast meals.”

“Really? They’re just sugar and food coloring.” Blackwall says.

“No one ever said that the Inquisitor was a particularly healthy eater.” Cullen replies. “Report?”

“Quiet, so far.” Blackwall says, “We’re certain that Corypheus has men in there?”

“Absolutely. Unless you want to ask Leliana yourself?”

“No, thank you. I like everything where it is on my person. You want me to carry her back to her room for you?”

“This is fine.” Cullen says, both of them looking at her, where she’s curled up on the dingy motel bedspread. They should’ve checked it for bugs.

She’s probably slept on worse.

“She’ll be back in here before dawn, anyway.” Cullen sighs, “Or somewhere else that isn’t her room.”

“Point.” Blackwall says, “If she gets in your hair, let me know. I can keep her out of trouble for at least half an hour.”

“Only? Losing your touch, Blackwall.” Cullen laughs, “It’s fine. She mostly sleeps. And she’s oddly fascinated with tele-novellas. She doesn’t understand most of it, but I suppose they’re dramatic enough that she has some clue as to what’s going on.”

“That would explain why she’s learning Antivan so fast.” Blackwall muses. “I’ll go check in with the Chargers. Bull’s gone out for supplies with Sera.”

Cullen looks alarmed.

“Josephine has them on budget.” Blackwall reassures him, “They won’t dare cross that line.”

-

“Did you know that there’s a strange sort of wailing sound coming from the room over?” Varric asks and Solas glances up at him and shrugs before looking back at the blueprints he’s drafting.

“Leliana at work, I suppose. Sound carries. The insulation isn’t very good.”

“You sound nonplussed with this.”

“You get used to it. Not even Dorian is complaining about it anymore.” Solas’ lips twitch upwards. “Though he has yet to cease complaining about the shade of paint they’ve decided to use on the walls.”

Dorian, on the other side of the room, makes an angry noise, crossed between a shush and a grumble and flicks his hand.

“I wasn’t aware the Inquisition was into. You know. Torture.” Varric says and both Dorian and Solas give him _looks_. “You know Poppy wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“She knows how Leliana works.” Solas says, “She often does not approve, but sometimes she is aware of time constraints and what must be done in order to get vital information.”

“Slippery slope.”

“We kill people.” Dorian says, “It’s sad, yes, unfortunate, yes, and terribly necessary at times. We don’t have to like it or even condone it.”

“I’m just saying.” Varric lays down some folders on Solas’ desk, “Mail for you, by the way. Might be important. Might be books. Might be another envelope full of dead bees.”

“You know, Lavellan was incredibly upset about that.” Dorian says, hunched over his drafting table and furiously writing something with one hand splayed open a book. “Did you know she has an entire lecture based on bees? I’m pretty sure she learned how to use power point just to make it. It’s impressive, to be honest. That girl has an eye for design. Maybe she should have been the one to make our logo. Instead of, you know. _Flaming sword that’s watching you_.”

“One must admit the flaming sword that watches you grabs attention.” Varric says, wincing when the sounds from the other room suddenly cease. “How do you guys even work with that going on?”

“Diligently.” Solas says at the same time as Dorian replies, “With a great deal of motivation not to end up in that room.”


	30. Chapter 30

A warehouse, smelly and dark – lights are bright and hurt my eyes. They flicker, the hum of their electricity burns at the edge of my hearing, too much, too unnatural. Nothing right, nothing familiar. It’s cold on the floor, except for where it isn’t.

I’d rather the cold.

It smells. It smells rotting, am I rotting? I should be scared. I am. But I’m hungry and tired and I don’t like it here. Confused, I’m confused and things are wobbly, I am wobbly.

Eyes looking at me. So many eyes. Some of them are like mine. Some aren’t. Most eyes are closed or looking elsewhere.

I don’t know any of these faces, and none of these faces know me.

Clink, clink, clink, tight and cutting and it hurts to move. Clink, clink, clink, my head hurts, it pounds, it pools, it bleeds, my mouth is dry except for where it tastes like blood and my lip stings because it cuts, cuts, cuts.

Water. _Water_.

It’s cold, here.

No one knows my face, someone has to call my name -

 _Memories, that’s all they are_.

They are her memories, but not yet. She isn’t ready for these memories yet. There’s a reason why she forgot them. I didn’t make her forget, help her forget. She forgot all on her own. People can do that, sometimes. When it really, really hurts them. When it hurts them so deeply that it could erase them, that hurting. So deeply that the cut will cleave them in two, cleave them into nothing. They aren’t large enough to make that sundering into a cut, so they forget and they wait and they wait until they’re large enough to contain the edges of it.

Sometimes they never get big enough. Sometimes the cut is always bigger than they are.

She’s not ready for this one, not yet. Sometimes the memory wants to surface – there are other cuts inside of her that are impatient to be seen. Heard. Felt. Split.

But she’s not ready for them. They try to surface in dreams. You always think you’re _more_ in dreams. You aren’t. You’re just yourself, spread out, unspooled, unwound, spilled, splayed, bloomed and blossomed, full and wide. You are everything you already were and growing. You just think your dream self is _more real_ because everything is you. But you aren’t everything, not yet.

She isn’t large enough for this one. So I hold it away. Not yet. She isn’t ready for you, not yet.

Someday. I think she will be.

But for now, I hold the memory away from her. She doesn’t need to remember this.

She just needs to _forget_.

-

As she searched, her movements grew frantic. Cole watches, and Varric looks at Cole who just watches him back before slowly turning his head to watch Lavellan continue to tear her room apart, looking for whatever the hell it is she’s looking for.

“It’s _important_.” She said, but didn’t say anything else.

“This is it, next thing you know, she’s blasting heavy metal and dying her hair something ridiculous. Like green or purple.” Dorian had mused, “Which, all things considered, wouldn’t look so bad. I bleached my hair in that stage. Ah, _youth_.”

“Says young man.” Bull said. “She’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’d be more worried about, you know, the glowing hand. That seems more of a problem.”

“The jury’s out on that one.” Everyone had collectively turned towards Solas’ direction but he’d ignored them. Nothing out of the normal with Chuckles, there.

Lavellan makes a frustrated and distressed noise and tosses a bra over her shoulder. Varric doesn’t know where it’s from.

She doesn’t wear them to start with.

“Sera worries about the support she needs. And she’s only joking some of the time.” Cole supplies.

“This would probably go faster if you could tell us what’s wrong.” Varric says, “Specifically, what you’re looking for.”

“But she can’t because you wouldn’t understand.” Cole says as Lavellan drops to the floor and crawls under her bed. She steadily tosses out shoes that Varric is pretty sure she’s supposed to have been wearing. For things.

Lavellan’s legs kick in the air before flinging out like little exclamation points. She lets out another distressed cry.

Varric is beginning to worry.

Maybe he should call Daisy.

Would Daisy even have reception where she’s at?

Lavellan emerges, dragging and lifting herself onto the bed to worm her way to the center, tucking her arms against her sides and screaming into the comforter. Cole shifts from where he’s been perched on the footboard and pets her hair.

Lavellan’s previously relatively-immaculate room looks like it got hit by a hurricane, alternatively, the Iron Bull.

“Just because it’s lost doesn’t mean it can’t be found.” Cole says, “Or that you’re a bad person.”

Lavellan whines.

Varric throws his hands up in the air, opens her door and yells out, “Okay, back to Code Yellow! I guess. Can I go back to paying bills now?”

-

“I’ve had sex on every surface of this bar.” Bull says and Dorian closes his eyes and the look of controlled disgust that flashes over it is something that Varric should probably be getting on camera. Maybe that’d even make Chuckles crack a smile.

“What’s that like?” Lavellan asks, gamely as she continues to draw pictures of flowers with condensation on the table. “May I have more peanuts?”

Krem pushes the bowl of peanuts over to her. “Careful, if it looks like it’s dirty and it’s been on the floor, you’re right and you shouldn’t eat it. There’s probably a reason why it was left in the bowl.”

“The dirt adds character, or so some of the other da’len would say.” Lavellan replies and starts picking through them and using them to make faces on the flowers.

“Challenging.” Bull answers her, “Especially the record player. Almost threw out my back.”

Dorian’s face progresses from disgusted to horrified.

“Kinky.” Varric says. Bull laughs.

“Is your back alright, Bull?” Lavellan asks, concerned as she looks up in the middle of giving her flower a smile, “Did you get medical attention?”

“He’s just getting old.” Krem snorts, laughing as Dorian slowly stands up and backs away from the bar and pulls out hand sanitizer from Lavellan’s bag. “That won’t help, you know.”

“Let me have my little delusions, Tevinter B.” Dorian says, “Just let me have something.”

“You’re getting too old for this shit, probably.” Varric muses.

“We’ll see.” Bull replies, “Nice flower, boss. Calm down, Pavus. As if you haven’t had sex anywhere that wasn’t a bed.”

“That’s different. Why would you even _say that_ to us?”

“Thank you.” Lavellan says, “And this is our bonding night. Bull’s sharing things with us. Sharing builds trust. And there is a disappointing lack of trust among all of you. I am very disappointed. Thank you for sharing, the Iron Bull. To add to his story, Sera says that there’s no surface in this bar she hasn’t thrown up on.”

Dorian gags.

Bull laughs, “I know! I’ve seen the stains sometimes! She got some on the ceiling once, which is something I can’t actually say for myself.”

“I can’t do this.” Dorian declares, “You uncivilized and disgusting barbarians. _Ludicrous_.”

“Oh, that’s a new one.” Varric says, “Expanding, Sparkler?”

“Leaving.” Dorian says, grimacing as he pushes the door open with his elbow. “I’m going to listen to Solas talk for a while. I find that it helps clear the mind and put you into a semi-comatose state.”


	31. Chapter 31

Cassandra leans her hip against the end of the bed Bull’s been dozing in.

Solas and Dalish bracket Lavellan on her hospital bed like fond (Dalish) and reluctant (Solas) parents, as Lavellan plays with the ties on her flimsy hospital gown.

“I’m not looking forward to her having all those shots at once, you?” Bull says, idly rolling the bed’s up and down controls in his hand. “Also, doesn’t this violate patient confidentiality or something? Shouldn’t she be in a closed room for a physical?”

“We don’t have a closed room with medical equipment.” Cassandra says. “And at this moment, patient confidentiality is the least of our concerns.”

“Good to know, good to know.”

The doctor says something, and Lavellan expectantly swings her head towards Dalish, who answers for her. The doctor makes a note, then asks something else. Both Dalish and Lavellan swing their heads towards Solas who sighs and answers for them. It’s a fascinating exchange.

“So why are you over here instead of over there?” Bull asks.

“Because I have nothing to add to the conversation.” Cassandra says, “And I’m here to stop you from flirting with all the medical assistants. We don’t have an STD clinic yet.”

“I’m offended. I’m clean.” Bull says.

Cassandra looks dubious. Bull spreads his arms as if to say look at me, how could I not be?

She rolls her eyes.

“Dalish knows how to translate most of our medical terms into what the Dalish call them. Solas knows how to translate the rest of it. Besides, between Lavellan and Dalish, they know half the continent’s worth of Dalish people’s medical history.” Cassandra says, “They can recite trees back almost two hundred years. We checked. It’s impressive.”

Personally, Cassandra can barely remember her cousins. Granted she has a few dozen of them, and by few dozen, she means a dozen dozen or so.

Either way, it’s impressive.

“There should probably be a curtain.” Bull says as Lavellan lies back for her breast exam. Solas sighs and covers his face with his hand. He attempts to leave but Dalish snags him by the back of his pants and laughs. Solas looks fed up with it all, but stays anyway as Lavellan chatters at the doctor. Who seems like a gentle wind can knock him over. “Not everyone gets to see the Herald of Andraste’s tits up close and personal.”

False, Lavellan doesn’t seem to care about nudity and will strip down to play in ponds and puddles if no one stops her. Similarly, she’ll take off wet or damaged clothing at the drop of a hat if it suits her.

Cassandra has made the tactical decision to stop caring lest she get another stomach ulcer.

Once was enough.

Cassandra sighs and punches Bull’s leg. “Stop looking at the MA’s like that. They get nervous and mess things up. We don’t need our medical professionals messing up.”

Lavellan laughs from the other side of the room as the doctor feels her stomach. “Your hands are cold!”

“Get Stitches to do it next time.” Bull calls out to her.

Lavellan gives him a thumbs up.

“Does Stitches do PAP smears?” She asks, “Because I haven’t had one and I don’t know what it is. It sounds funny. Pap. Like the sound dogs’ little feet make on tile. Pap, pap, pap.”

Solas sighs. The doctor looks at Cassandra, helpless. Dalish pats Lavellan’s knee.

“He has gentle hands, don’t worry.”

Bull laughs so hard the bed shakes.

-

Solas, de Fer, and Pavus have been yelling at each other all day in various combinations. Sometimes Solas and de Fer teaming up against Pavus, sometimes Pavus and de Fer teaming up against Solas, sometimes Solas and Pavus against de Fer. All of it in fluid circles that doesn’t seem to bring them anywhere closer to a conclusion.

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Blackwall asks Lavellan as they pass by the labs again. Dorian’s voice can be heard through the door.

“Of course.” Lavellan says, “It’s a simple enough solution, really.”

Blackwall doesn’t ask further, but he does wonder why she isn’t in the room with them. She does enjoy discussing magic. At least, around people who understand what she means.

Oh, yes, she’s gone on about magical theory to people who don’t. It’s just not in words anyone can understand and it tends to make people uncomfortable. So she doesn’t.

She’s very considerate of other people. Blackwall thinks that people really should think about how they can be more considerate towards her.

The three mages have been arguing for most of the day and Cole was the one to go and bring them food.

“Do you think you could solve it?” Blackwall asks when he’s escorting her back from one of her meetings and there’s a small flash of light from underneath the main lab’s door. “And get them to stop fighting?”

“I already did.” Lavellan says, “But it won’t stop them from fighting.”

“Why?”

“Because they won’t believe me when I tell them the answer. They have to find it for themselves.” She says, curling her arm through Blackwall’s as she attempts to peer through a gap in the blinds of the lab window. “I don’t know technical terms, not really. And I’m not really good at procedure and science and recording observations or things like that. You know, things that scientists do. I just do things and I know they work and sometimes I know why they work and I know how I work. But if I just told them then they’d nod their heads but go back to arguing about what they think is the right answer.”

“Sounds stupid.” Blackwall says. Lavellan laughs.

“It is, but don’t tell them that because they’ll just get even more frustrated.” She pats his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ve been having Cole slip them clues. I bet Dorian will get it first. Pity, he’s going to have to convince the other two of it. They’re very stubborn. And proud. Don’t tell them I said that, either.”


	32. Chapter 32

“It’s cold.” Lavellan says, breath misting in the air as she rubs her arms, Dorian takes off his outer coat and wraps it around her shoulders. “Thank you, but I think you need it more.”

“Nonsense.” Dorian says, “I’m staying _in_ the car with the heaters on. Have fun doing whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”

Lavellan pouts.

“Ditto.” Sera says, “You can have my gloves.”

“I have gloves.” Lavellan says, “I just don’t know where they are. You aren’t coming, either?”

Sera laughs. “Hiking up a mountain to look at a quarry full of angry glowing bits of rock? No. Have fun with Blackwall and de Fer.”

“I can’t believe de Fer is actually going.” Dorian says, blowing into his hands. “This isn’t exactly her _forte_.”

“She’s going because she’s nice and cares about me.” Lavellan says, “And it’s not so bad. There’s going to be dragons.”

Dorian closes the car door and rolls up the window.

“Drive.” Dorian says to the scout who’s been attempting to disguise his laughter in the front seat. “Just drive. Floor it.”

“Can’t, ser.” The scout says.

“Why not?” Sera asks, climbing over the seats to sit next to Dorian. “Did you not hear the bit about the dragon?”

“Dragons. _Plural_.”

“Strict orders from the Commander.” The scout says, “Not to leave until everyone is out of this truck and at least a fourth of the way up the mountain.”

Sera thumps her head against the headrest of the passenger seat. “Fuck me. Fuck me. _Fuck me, why did I get in the car in the first place?”_

“ _It’s not that bad,_ she said.” Dorian says, pushing his thumbs against the inner corners of his eyes. “It’ll be _scenic_ , she said. _You need the fresh air_ , she said. _The drive won’t be too long_ , she said. _Aren’t we friends and don’t you want to spend time with me anymore_ , she said with those stupid bovine eyes of hers and that creepy mind-magic she has when she opens her damned mouth.”

Lavellan raps on the window, “If we don’t leave soon we’ll never reach the halfway point Cassandra and Josephine set up by nightfall. I don’t mind sleeping in the snow, but I don’t think you guys are used to it and I worry about your toes.”

“I will _pay you_.” Dorian says. “So much.”

The scout turns around and says, “Ser Pavus, there is nothing you can pay me to convince me to disobey a direct order from the Commander of the Inquisition. Similarly, there is nothing you can threaten me with because the Inquisitor is _right there_ and she can hear you. The Commander had this all planned out, ser. You’ve played chess with him. You know how he can be.”

Dorian wordlessly pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials.

“I hate your guts and everything you stand for.” Dorian says as soon as Cullen picks up.

“I had a scout pack you extra socks and actual boots meant for travel.” Cullen says, “Check underneath your seat. You’re welcome.”

-

Lavellan is slung on Bull’s back like an especially talkative backpack, and seemingly alright with the fact that her ankle is sprained and she’s got a bullet wound in her upper thigh.

Cassandra is torn between fretting – she doesn’t _fret_  – and angry. She’s mostly settled on angry. At what, she hasn’t decided yet.

For now she’s just _angry_ at the world at large. No. Not angry. Irritated. Yes. That is a more appropriate word. _Irritated_.

Lavellan continues to chatter, picking through a bag of candy Bull pulled out of his pack and gave her.

Cassandra wants to know why Bull carries candy around in his pack. She would ask, but she’s certain she wouldn’t like the answer.

Bull had offered her some. She’d taken a small packet of fruit flavored gummy chews. They aren’t half bad. Cassandra is keeping the plastic wrapper in her pocket to ask Josephine about procuring more. The children at Skyhold may like them. Similarly, sugar and artificial flavoring helps boost morale.

Cole, for the  most part, seems mostly alright with things. Though he keeps giving Cassandra worried looks.

There’s nothing to be worried about except their Inquisitor’s health and she wishes that Cole would stop looking at her like he’s reading her mind.

“Your thoughts are loud.” Cole says, still looking at her, fingers pulling at the frayed edges of his jacket. They should get him a new one. He looks like a homeless orphan. Or someone who crawled their way out of a car crash.

Or both.

Cassandra decides that she doesn’t want to know anything about how Cole got his shape.

“That’s fair.” Cole says, “And it doesn’t even hurt that much. Car crashes, minor burns, gunshots, and pulling them all out. Bodies out of glass, infections out of wounds, bullets out of flesh. It hurts more if you do it alone. But she isn’t. And it’s good. Knowing you care makes it better.”

“ _Cole_.” Cassandra says.

She feels a headache coming.

Josephine has a cure for this, it involves fish oil and a mysterious, unmarked black bottle that smells strongly of paint thinner.

Lavellan continues to chatter, blissfully unaware of what Cole’s been whispering at her, arms gesticulating as she articulates something or other. Whether it’s a real story or one she’s made up, Cassandra isn’t sure. She hasn’t been listening.

But Lavellan looks at her for support so she nods anyway.

“See? You make it better.” Cole says and ducks away before Cassandra can take a swat at him.

Bull raises an eyebrow and Cassandra wonders what she nodded about.

Lavellan squirms around, trying to catch Bull’s attention again as she waves her arms.

Bull squeezes the calf of the leg without the bullet wound and grunts to give her his attention.

Lavellan holds the bag out of candy to Cole who takes it and holds it like one holds something incredibly strange and fragile. Cassandra takes it from him and pulls out a jawbreaker. She could use the stress relief.

Her dentist may hate her on principle, but he’s getting paid more, if anything.

And she’s here saving the world, so it’s not like he can complain.


	33. Chapter 33

“Did you know that she has a peculiar fondness for listening to the sound of internet connections?” Varric asks and Bull hums. “Daisy and Broody were oddly fond of it, too. I thought it might be a Dalish thing but that doesn’t explain Broody.”

“Skinner and Dalish like, too.” Bull says, “Have you asked Sera?”

“Haven’t _found_ Sera.” Varric says. “Any thoughts as to why?”

“You asking me?”

“I don’t know any other super spies who read people like books lately, so no.”

“There’s always the spymaster.”

“Yeah, but she scares the shit out of me.”

“Is that why your coat and pants are brown?”

“And everyone wonders why I write shit about them behind their backs on forums.” Varric rolls his eyes. Bull laughs. “Uh. Don’t tell the Seeker that.”

“Are you the one she’s stuck in a flame war with? Grim’s been following that shit on twitter for the past month. It makes him happy.”

They both turn to where Grim is determinedly pouring through lines of code, the light of the computer screen reflecting from his eyes, about three days’ worth of beard growth, and a suspicious stain on the collar of his shirt.

“I didn’t know Grim could _be_ happy.” Varric says.

“You learn to read his moods. This is actually really peppy for him.” Bull says, “Anyway, I dunno. Ask Solas, I’m no magical elf-decoder.”

“Can you see me asking Chuckles about anything going down well? And even if he did answer me seriously, I might go into a coma. That’d make some people happy, and we can’t have that.”

“And you wonder why people think you’re a piece of shit.” Bull says, “Anyway, I dunno. I think Stitches asked Dalish about it once. She said that there was a song or something. Weird, maybe they hear shit different. They already see things different.”

“Wait, they see differently?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know? Better night vision and slightly different color spectrum. Go ask the boss what she thinks the concrete looks like next time you see her. She’s going to say lavender, or something close to it.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah, trippy, isn’t it? Makes you wonder about what’s really going on in their heads. These are the things we talk about whenever Rocky gets his hands on decent deep mushroom moonshine. You want to join us next time? It probably won’t be as explosive as the last time.”

-

“She’s crying because you got chili powder in her eyes, dickface.” Sera says, and drags Lavellan over to the side. Lavellan keeps sniffling. “Stop that, you’ll just get it up your nose.”

“But it’s already bad.” Lavellan says, “It can’t get worse.”

“Oh, you say that now. C’mon. We’re washing your eyes out.” Sera sighs, “And this is why we can’t do nice things. Why do people have to be shit? Why can’t the world just be full of dogs? Dogs that talk. Talking dogs. That aren’t demons. I mean, why can’t people just be dogs? Actual dogs in like, not stupid ways. You know?”

“I think? Ow. This hurts. I like it better when it’s in my food, than when it’s in my mouth. Sera, why did that person throw chili powder at me?”

“Because he was a dumb piece of shit. Well, he’s probably going to be a dead piece of shit, now. You don’t fuck with the Inquisition. ‘specially not when she’s got Jennies on her side.”

“Oh, I thought you meant Leliana was going after him.”

“She probably will.” Sera shrugs, “But  Jennies answer to no one, yeah? Less – what’s it called?  Culpability? You’re welcome.”

“Sera I am hungry, now.” Lavellan says, face blotchy and streaming, “I was thinking about chili powder and all the things I like to eat with it and now I am hungry, do you think we could get the driver to stop by a taco place? I like tacos. I have money. Do you think they’ll take my money?”

Lavellan could shit in her own hand and hand it to someone and they’d probably take it. If the hand was the green one.

Sera makes a mental note to experiment with that.

And another mental note to check Lavellan’s wallet for what kind of cash she’s carrying.

“Yeah, sure. You’re the boss. Don’t you call the shots?”

“Sometimes.” Lavellan says. “What would you call a shot?”

“Never mind.”

-

Lavellan’s room looks like a mix between an ancient torture room, a teenage girl’s bedroom, and the office of a medieval squire.

In short, it fits her perfectly.

Lavellan rolls up in her thick covers, disappearing underneath them in an endearing _poof_ that brings it all together in a ball. The fairy lights Bull helped her string up around the head board continue to twinkle merrily.

“Not feeling well?” Solas asks, stepping over a dismantled tazer and around a pile of magazine cartridges. Blackwall’s been teaching her when he has time. She’s mostly gotten the grasp of bullets and bullet sizes.

Her clothes are scattered into neat little piles around the room, and it touches something inside him that she has so many, now. More than enough. As many as she likes. The gowns and suits and clothes used for more official occasions are hung up in a separate room, along with jewelry and formal shoes. No one was naive enough to think that they would stay immaculate on their hangers and respective boxes in Lavellan’s room.

She’s too curious for that.

Solas sighs as he pushes aside a pair of leggings with the heel of his foot.

He isn’t her father. Or her Keeper.

He bends down and starts collecting clothes off the floor anyway. Solas recognizes the futility of it, they’ll only end up back on the floor later. Still.

Her books and papers are meticulous, though. A small victory, he supposes.

Lavellan grumbles, curling up and almost rolling into the wall.

Solas plucks a bra off a sword she’s hung on the wall and tosses it into a pile of what is probably underwear and undergarments. Clean, most of them still in packaging. He’s not going to sort her underclothes for her.

He hasn’t fallen that far into domesticity, yet.

Mythal is somewhere laughing at him, he knows it. She’s scrying him right this second and laughing.

“You won’t get better like that.” Solas says, putting clothes into her drawers, sighing when he opens the bottom most drawer and finds a pair of eyes staring back up at him. Solas slowly closes the drawer, leaving it open by an inch and ignores the way the raccoon’s paw grabs at him. _No_ , he thinks at it and it makes a small chirp. “Get up, wash your face, brush your teeth, eat something.”

Lavellan whines, and he hears the soft thump and startled yelp of her hitting her head against the wall.

Solas turns around.

“I will physically move you, da’len. _One_.”

The lump stiffens.

Solas puts a knee on the mattress, “Two.”

Lavellan defiantly curls up smaller.

Solas sighs. He’s probably too old for this. “Three.”

Lavellan presses  herself flat against the wall.

Solas grabs the ends of the comforter and drags her to his side, tipping her into his arms with a small grunt. “Dorian is going to laugh at you.”

Lavellan struggles, trapped in her own blanket cocoon.

“If you had come out when I told you, this wouldn’t be a problem.” Solas tells her, “Get ready to come out, or I’m dropping you in the bath.”


	34. Chapter 34

“She’s decided that she doesn’t like you anymore.” Solas says, “On the principle that you’re making her turn out her _friends_ ,” Solas says the word friends like some people say the words _unruly and filthy street urchins_ with semi-sarcastic airquotes, “Into the cold. I’m the one telling you because she insisted that you’d be civil towards me.”

“She is not wrong about me being civil towards you.” Cassandra says.

“Thank you.” Solas sighs, something in his shoulders sagging a little. “I’ve mostly gotten the rabbits out of her closet when she wasn’t looking. But that’s all I can do, for now.”

“Thank you, Solas.” Cassandra rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I will try to have a talk with her about this again. Soon. She understands _why_ I’m telling her to get rid of them, at least? Surely she doesn’t think I’m doing it just because.”

“I think she hears you when you explain it.” Solas answers, slowly measuring out his words, “But I don’t think she quite connects the words in her understanding. I’d ask Bull for help, if I were you. He’s good at getting her to listen. Better than me, at times.”

“Why is that, do you think? Aren’t you the one she adopted?”

Solas barely refrains from wrinkling his nose at the phrasing – it’s accurate, but somewhat irritating.

“He’s good at bringing himself to her level, I suspect. Relating to her on her own terms. With me there’s an innate sense of hierarchy and order. It’s more flexible with him. He is older, but he’s also under her employ. At the same time, he is her trainer, her body guard, her spy, her confidant. I try not to dwell on it. As long as it works for them, I think it’s fine. Ah, I also found these between the wall and her mattress.”

Solas hands Cassandra some paper backs, slightly bent with worn covers.

Cassandra somehow manages not to flush as she quickly tucks them under her arm. Solas smiles, just a little bit. Cassandra glares.

“Not a word.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He says, “In the mean time, I think she was smuggling possums into the ceiling panels above the labs. I’m certain Dorian will convince her out of it, but she might end up storing cats there instead.”

-

“She’s been watching daytime soap operas for the past week. You need to get her out of this base and doing something. We’re ruining her.” Dorian says to Cullen.

“I am aware of that.” Cullen replies, “As you have repeatedly told me all morning. It can’t be helped. It’s raining buckets. We can’t get her down the  mountain safety in this weather with the roads still under construction. It’s helping her practice her language and her grasp of culture.”

“Culture? What culture? It’s garbage. She’s watching garbage.”

“Tell that to Josephine. I dare you.” Cullen snorts, “Dorian, don’t you have actual work to be doing? As some of us do?”

Cullen waves around his office and the various people coming in and out with papers, boxes, and various things. Cullen holds his hand out to accept some files and puts them in a pile on top of the others ones he’s yet to look at.

“I have an understudy.” Dorian says.

“An understudy.” Cullen repeats. “Isn’t that a theater term?”

“It applies.” Dorian says. “An apprentice, an aide, a whatever you call it. The point is that I am worried about Lavellan. She used to be all out doors and animals and grass and dirt and things. Now she’s molded to one of the break room sofas.”

“It just shows that she has enough sense to stay out of this kind of rain.” It’s really just shy of being liquid bullets. It actually set off one of the car alarms.

“Sense! As if that girl has ever had any sort of sense that we mere humans could understand!” Dorian exclaims, waving a hand and causing one of Cullen’s aides to make an awkward hop-lean in order to dodge being smacked. Cullen winces when the aide topples into one of Josephine’s assistants, who in turn spills papers she’s been helping one of Cullen’s staff organize all over the floor.

Cullen sighs.

“Dorian just get out and give her something else to do.”

“Sera’s gotten her fanfiction.” Dorian slams his hand down on Cullen’s desk. “The girl is reading _fanfiction now_. She’s not about to start writing it, it’s not in her talents, but she’s been _drawing_. Drawing, Cullen. _Drawing_. She’s descending into the pits of depravity.”

“Some of the best classics are drawn from non-original source material.” Cullen says.

“No classic will ever derive from the garbage she watches.”

“You’re bitter because in the latest youtube parody the didn’t include you.” Cullen says. “And in the comments they always pair you with some nameless scout.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not!” Dorian says, “And when I find the owners of that channel I’m going to give them a good talking to!”

“Bitter.” Cullen says, “Goodbye, Dorian. I’ll see you at dinner, I suppose.”

“You definitely will. Don’t think this conversation over, Commander. I swear, she’s going to start literally becoming one with that sofa.”

-

As  he took in the view from the twentieth floor, just passing the nineteenth, all the lights went out over the city. The elevator jerked to a sudden stop, and Lavellan wobbled before crashing into his back. Bull swears.

“Fuck.”

“Does this mean the plan went badly?” She asks him, opening her hand and allowing her palm to light up the glass elevator like a glow stick.

Bull covers her hand in his.

“If the lights are out everywhere, it’d look funny if there was one single light in the entire city.” Bull says. Lavellan makes a small _oh_ and nods. “And yeah, the plan’s gone to shit. Let’s focus on getting out of the elevator.”

“Alright.” She says, “Do you think the others are alright?”

“They’ll be fine. Nothing in this city is more dangerous than you or me, boss.” Bull says, because Cassandra declined to go on this one. Busy doing other things. Paperwork, mostly. Josephine wouldn’t let her get away with pushing it off onto aides anymore.

“But, Bull.” Lavellan says as Bull sets about figuring a way out, “If we’re the most dangerous things in the city, and we’re in the elevator, then who’s the person aiming a scope at us from that building over there?”


	35. Chapter 35

“When I die I want you to lower me into the ground so you can let me down one last time.” Krem says, Bull doesn’t even look bothered he just gives Krem a thumbs up.

“Sounds good, thought you were gonna get cremated, though? Didn’t you put down _Kremation_ on your will?”

Krem groans and rubs his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Tousled is a good look for you, by the way.” Bull says, “Makes you look rugged. Windswept and all that bad-boy stuff. It helps that you swing around a really large and primitive stick.”

“Every time you open your mouth something inside of me recoils in horror.” Krem says, “Honestly, I don’t even know why we let you out of the house.”

“Gotta get that good old vitamin D somewhere.” Bull says, “And I’d get bed sores, otherwise.”

“Anyway.” Krem says, “Are we done here?”

Bull hums, leaning back and raising the front legs of his chair off the ground.

“Depends.  You think the Ambassador and Varric will kick this one back at us?”

Krem scrolls through the contract one more time, “Look, this is the best contract we’ve ever made. I want this contract. This is a damned good contract for a starter. A senior member. It practically looks like you’re hiring her to be the next commander of the Chargers with all these benefits. I don’t know why they keep kicking them back at us. She already said yes and everything.”

“True, but she’d say yes to most anything.” Bull points out, “She’d say yes to a salary of three corn chips and a paper bag that’s been set on fire. That’s why she’s got managers. Who knows? By the time this whole Inquisition thing is over, maybe she really will be leading the Chargers.”

Krem turns and gives Bull a _look_.

Bull shrugs and folds his arms. “Don’t know what the Qun has planned, Krem. Don’t know what the hell _anyone_ has planned. Not even the Inquisition.”

“Ominous. Knock it off. You aren’t supposed to be ominous. That’s Skinner’s job. It’s in _her_ contract.” Krem slowly clenches and unclenches his hand underneath the table.

_This man. I’ll follow this man wherever he goes. Doesn’t matter where. Dragons? Demons? Red lyrium? Death? The end of the world? Yes._

Bull hums, “Read the contract out to me one more time? If we don’t get this kid in, Dalish will probably sulk about it for months.”

Krem snorts, “As if you won’t _conveniently_ line up our jobs so that you can go check in on her whenever you want. You giant softie.”

“Never said I _wouldn’t_. Dalish’d just sulk at me anyway. Any excuse to sulk and shit. I swear. She’s out to get me.”

“Shouldn’t have broken her _bow_. You know she’s touchy about _archery_.”

-

“Have you considered hiring an assistant?” Vivienne asks.

Josephine pointedly looks at the series of desks around the room filled with people at work. Vivienne dismisses them with a wave of the hand.

“A _competent_ assistant, I meant. Not thirty college interns who barely know how to read and file a compensation report.”

“They can hear you.”

“Good, I hope they do. I am genuinely worried to have the fate of the _world_ in their hands, which shake due to too much Adderall and bad decisions.” Vivienne pointedly looks over her shoulder at one of the desks in particular, where the boy sitting at it slowly hunches his shoulders and curls closer to his computer, nervously clicking through spreadsheets. Vivienne rolls her eyes, internally. “You need to trade up, darling. If even _Pavus_ can find someone capable of keeping up with him and of being half-way decent use during his work hours you should be able, too.”

“Well, there’s always – “ Josephine says, and waves her hand in the direction of the war room.

“She helps us all and it technically isn’t even her job to be so incredibly nice.” Vivienne replies, “The Herald of Andraste has better things to be doing than color coding tabs in a three ring binder.”

“Tell that to the Herald of Andraste,” Josephine replies, dry and amused as she slowly sits up, stretching her back and arms. “I’d like to watch how that goes over, Madame Vivienne, considering that half the staff has tried already.”

“Half your staff is not _me_.” Vivienne muses, “I’m sure I could get her to see things clearly.”

“How’s that going with boots?”

“I’ve enjoyed a mild success due to the winter storms, darling, but let’s not bring it up. We were having such a lovely discussion.” Vivienne raises an eyebrow and Josephine laughs.

“You are too much, Madame de Fer.” Josephine says, “Is there anything else I can help you with, aside from providing you a place to keep your observational skills sharp?”

“You could set up a luncheon for me.” Vivienne says, “And I only ask you to do it because I’m unable to get into contact with the other party without your wonderful networking skills.”

“Dare I ask who?”

“Fiona.”

Josephine’s eyebrows raise. “I would think that you would be able to do that without me.”

“Our disagreements put as at opposite ends. She’s unlikely to call me back or respond to an email from me.” Vivienne says, “And I, her. But it is important. Lavellan wishes to speak with her. About what, I haven’t the faintest idea. But she wanted to get in touch with her, as well as the King of Ferelden. I know that the dear girl is on close terms with the man – and how that happened I’m going to find out one day, just you watch – but in the mean time, it needs to be sorted out through official channels. And I can’t say that our lovely Inquisitor is very good at sorting things through official channels, can you?”

“No, I sadly, cannot. The Inquisition isn’t much for official anything, these days. Hence the thirty or so college interns.”

“Shame, I’m sure the Chantry will come to its senses. It should try to hurry up. The Chantry is in dire need of a firm hand, an update, and a swift kick into motion. And yes, you can tell Mother Giselle I said that. In fact, I’ll gladly repeat it to her face.”

“One tense luncheon at a time, Madame de Fer.”


	36. Chapter 36

“Just checking, hey, is Lavellan in her office right now? And by office, I mean her room. And by room, I mean somewhere near the phone we put in the general area of her living quarters.” Josephine makes sure to clarify, phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder as she rapidly flips through stacks of paper. She knows she had the request form here. She _knows it_. It was _in her hands_.

“Let me check.” Cullen says, and she hears him moving away from wherever he’s set up camp for the day, and really Josephine should have Lavellan’s body guards on speed dial. She shouldn’t be distracting their already over-worked Commander with checking in on their Inquisitor as it is. It would probably help if Cullen weren’t so accommodating and polite about it all.

Josephine and Cullen have yet to reach the stage in their acquaintanceship in which Cullen feels comfortable enough to joke around with her, and she isn’t quite comfortable enough to really tease him without Leliana starting it. She hopes they get to that stage soon. He seems to be a very fun man when he isn’t being overly polite and professional.

Cullen sighs a few minutes later, and Josephine still has yet to find the request form she’s looking for. Although she has found several receipts that she thought Sera stole. She probably has to apologize to Sera.

“Well. She’s in her office, I’ve got eyes on her.” There’s the sound of clothing rustling, “Inquisitor, please remember to pick up your armor and properly store it. You can iron clothing for wrinkles, but there’s really nothing you can do if you damage wyvern hide and let it _fester_.”

Josephine adjusts the receiver away from her face when she coughs up a laugh.

“Try calling her.” Cullen says, “Inquisitor, you can’t just _leave machine gun parts lying about_. If you step on it, you might hurt yourself. She’s had tetanus shots, right, Josephine? Just to make sure.”

“Yes. We got that one, at least.” Josephine says, standing up and reaching for one of the several phones she has on the wall behind her and dials Lavellan’s extension.

“I hear it ringing.” Cullen says, “She’s just staring at it. She turned away and sighed and put her head on a book. Inquisitor, I understand if you do that for – say – Sera or Varric, but when it’s Josephine, it really is important. You know she doesn’t call you with random and pointless gossip like they do.”

Josephine can’t hear Lavellan’s response but Cullen sounds amused when he speaks again.

“Even so, I think you owe the Ambassador an apology. There’s a reason why we put a phone in your living quarters.”

A pause, and the sounds of an almost-scuffle.

“Josephine, while I literally have our Inquisitor,” Cullen says, not even sounding out of breath. Josephine can now hear Lavellan’s faint whining and struggling, “You are on speaker. What was it you needed?”

“This isn’t what I thought Leliana meant when she said you were more of a hands on type of person.” Josephine says, “And I needed to ask the Inquisitor about some of the official stances she wants us to take in our next press release.”

“My official stance is that I greatly dislike phones and solid walls.” Lavellan says, “And that Cullen is no longer my favorite for the above reasons.”

“With all due respect, my lady, I am not here to be anyone’s favorite.” Cullen replies. “And no, you have not hurt my feelings. I am sure that my ego will survive this blow.”

-

“Bull, I have a question.” Lavellan says, slowly climbing in through the half-open window. Bull’s impressed. Takes a certain kind of dedicated flexibility to get through a window like that one. Bull waits as she carefully adjusts herself before flopping over onto his lap. “No. Two questions. One question? Related questions!”

“Shoot.” He says, raising his knees a little so she doesn’t roll over and fall to the floor. Again.

She’d looked _disappointed_ in him the last time it happened.

“Bull, you always say that you are hot. Does this mean temperature wise? Or aesthetically?”

“Both. I am pretty good looking.” Bull says, ruffling her hair.

“If you say so, I guess.” Lavellan replies, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch.

“I do say so, so yeah.” Bull laughs, “And because Qunari run a bit hotter than humans and dwarves. Must be that dragon blood.”

“Is that because you’re a Reaver or because you’re Qunari? Are all Qunari warriors Reavers, the Iron Bull?”

“Some. Not all. And remember what I told you about my theory about dragons and Qunari origins?”

“Oh! That dragon blood.” Lavellan reaches up and presses her palms to his bicep, “You feel warm, but not that warm.”

“Elves run warmer than humans and dwarves, too.”

“Oh.” Lavellan says, “I didn’t notice. Is that why it seems like Cullen is always cold? Wait, what about Dorian? Dorian feels warm.”

“That’s magic, boss. You’re feeling magic. Pavus likes fire spells. Madame de Fer likes ice spells. You see what I mean?”

“Oh. Alright. So humans are cooler than elves, except mages who use fire spells a lot. Is that right?”

“You got it. What was your other question?”

Lavellan hums, the heels of her palms kneading against Bull’s muscle as she thinks, tracing her thoughts back towards her original question. A cat after a ball of yarn.

“Is that the reason why you don’t wear shirts with sleeves?” She asks, “I was wondering. How come no one ever really tells you off about that? People get mad if I don’t wear a scarf when it’s only a little it windy.”

“Well. Shirts are hard enough as it is with the horns.” Bull says, tapping the underside of her chin with his finger and making her laugh. “And I’m a little big for most shirts around here. And I’m not going to get that shit tailored. But yeah, that’s part of it. I don’t need as many layers as the rest of you.”


	37. Chapter 37

“I know that she’s nice – I mean, she gave me a chance and all, but what’s she like? As a boss, I mean?” Sutherland whispers to Blackwall, “I’ve known some people who were super nice and stuff on off hours, but they turn into real hard-asses during work.”

“I doubt that the words _hard ass_ could ever be applied to her.” Blackwall snorts, and glances towards where he last saw Lavellan trotting off while singing about pancakes, he’s fairly sure she was looking for a new patch of dirt in order to plant new flowers. The cafeteria had fresh pumpkin the other day, she might be looking to plant the seeds. “And I’m fairly sure she hasn’t quite gotten the grasp between off and on hours. Technically,s he’s always on. S’not like she can switch her identity off like a punch card.”

“Still.” Sutherland presses. “What’s she like?”

“What you see is essentially what you get.” Blackwall shrugs, “You’re worrying too much. Look, she doesn’t even think of herself as our boss. She asks Cullen and Josephine for an allowance. She has to be called for dinner. Bull can ground her. Cassandra’s sent her to bed without supper.”

Sutherland looks doubtful.

Krem takes this opportunity to appear, slightly out of breath and a little sweat at his temples, “I’m looking for an elf. About this high, female, and you know. Glowing hand.”

“Looking for dirt.” Blackwall answers, “Probably. I think she went that way. You know that means nothing, though.”

Sutherland looks confused. Krem laughs.

“Just because you see her going one way doesn’t mean you’ll find her in that direction. Roads and straight lines are more like _suggestions_ for her.  You know how most people think in vague two dimensional terms of movement? Right, left, forward, back?”

“I – I guess?”

“She doesn’t. Up, down, diagonally, those are all valid directions for her to take.” Krem says, “She’s also like a cat, so chances are if you need her, look someplace high. Or a sunny patch. Not too warm, mind. She has a certain temperature range that she likes.”

“There’s a science to it, Krem.” A voice says from above them, Sutherland startles and Blackwall’s hand clenches around a baton that isn’t there. Krem swears under his breath about _elves_.

Lavellan swings her legs over the overhang of the building, head tilted at them.

“Get down.” Blackwall says, “Before someone sees you. By someone, I  mean someone who’s likely to start yelling and throwing a fit.”

Lavellan hums, kicks her legs a little.

“Skinner is looking for you.” Krem says, “Do you want to make her wait?”

Lavellan frowns. “Okay.”

She gets up and walks the edge of the roof.

“Where’s she going?” Sutherland asks. “Where’s she going?”

“Quickest route.” Blackwall says. “Told you, the girl doesn’t think in terms of roads and pathways.”

-

“Why do people sometimes say _shoot_ when I have a question, or _shoot_ when they hear bad things? I mean, I know being shot is a bad thing, but I don’t understand the rest.” Lavellan asks, chin leaning on the table. “I’m asking you because you are very good at explaining things and you have Bianca. Also, Bull is busy and I know he doesn’t mind answering all my questions but Dalish says I can’t bother him all the time because I’m going to get spoiled, Varric, do you think that I’m spoiled?”

Varric puts his pen down and slowly sorts through that entire _deluge_.

“First. No, I don’t think you’re spoiled. You could use some more spoiling, to be honest. I don’t think it’s possible for you to be spoiled at this stage in your life.”

“Thank you.”

“Second, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Third, _shoot_ means a few things in slang. Shoot, when asking a question, like you _shoot_ and arrow and stuff. So you shoot a question at a person.”

“I don’t know if I like that, it sounds mean.” Lavellan says.

“In a gentle way, of course.” Varric assures her. “And it can also mean _damn_ , as in – _damn, that’s too bad_ , not as in _damn_ go to hell, or _damn_ a river.”

“Oh.” Lavellan says, “You really are very good at explaining things, Varric. You make it all very clear and I don’t even have to ask follow up questions most of the time. Have you ever considered writing a book like that?”

“I’ll put it on my to do list, or maybe I’ll just make a private copy just for you.” Varric says, “Also, straighten up. The Enchanter coming this way. Don’t want her getting in on your posture again.”

-

“Well, you can take your dignity and put it – put it somewhere far away from me!” Lavellan yells into the phone before staring at it in confusion and throwing it at Dorian who fumbles with it -

“Oh, I don’t fucking think so.” Dorian mutters and tosses it at Bull who stares at it. “Do something.”

Bull shrugs.

“You heard the lady. Me? Doesn’t matter who I am, you just pissed off the Inquisitor of Thedas and her _group of assassin mercenaries_. Good luck with that.”

“You make it sound like you’re going to kill him.” Cassandra says. “I don’t wholly disapprove. I am uncertain as to how I feel about this.”

“You’ve _changed_.” Dorian says, “For the better or for the worse, it probably doesn’t matter. The point is that we’re all trapped in this cycle of destruction and personality altering trials together. Out of curiosity, are you going to get them killed?”

Cassandra and Dorian look at Lavellan who looks at Bull.

“Why is she looking at Bull for the answer?”

“Am I?” She asks.

Bull hums, rolling her phone between his palms before he shrugs and hands it back to her. “Nah, you’re good. Waste of effort. Better to let them go on in fear, keep low. Keep tabs on them. We’ll probably be able to use that. There’s always blackmail.”

“I’m not.” Lavellan says, turning back to Cassandra and Dorian, beaming. “I am not getting them assassinated!”

“She sounds so proud of that.” Dorian says. “I love her.”

 


	38. Chapter 38

My fingers curl, grass that is not grass. Silk and velvet, a whisper. The feeling of a whisper. Sunlight that isn’t sunlight against my eyelids. Where am I?

I open my eyes and it’s wrong, it’s Skyhold, but not. Skyhold never gets this warm. Not even when they pile on wood for fires and bring in dozens of portable heaters. Skyhold just isn’t a place for this kind of warmth. I run my hand through grass that is not grass, it is hair. It is Mahanon.

You’re dead, I think, as I look into his face, which is once-and-always-will-be my own face. The Mahanon who isn’t opens one cat-like eye and smiles at me in the way Mahanon who was only ever really smiled when we were alone.

In Skyhold you are never alone.

I touch his face and _want_. It is my face, too.

I want it back.

I touch the face that was once ours and he leans into my touch, cheek to my palm that is not green, why isn’t it green? He kisses me, softly, at the meat of my hand, teeth grazing like I am grass.

Mahanon who isn’t closes his eyes and sighs a breath that feels like a scream because I want to scream, this is not Mahanon. This is not Skyhold.

This is not mine.

It is not right, I want. I deny. I want. I deny.

Where am I?

You know.

I turn and Cole is here because Cole, of all of them, Cole would not leave me. Cole does not leave. Kindness stays with you in everything you touch.

Yes.

Cole is not Cole. He is green and he is spring grasses, moving in ways that my eyes shouldn’t be able to see. I can see the boundaries of spirit and boy. I reach for him.

Yes.

I am in the Fade. I am dreaming.

Yes.

I look down at the Mahanon who isn’t and he sleeps a sleep that is nothing at all like the true thing. Mahanon, my face, return to me?

He sleeps forever, now.

I know. A pang in my heart. I taste storm clouds in this dream. My storm clouds. The Mahanon who isn’t feels like running my hand against flowing water. Soft, sweet resistance.

Someday, you, too, will sleep forever.

I look at Cole again and he is closer now, but he never comes close in my dreams I don’t know why, I want to ask, but I can’t find the way to ask it. I feel shy. I am shy, Cole.

You don’t have to know the answer to everything.

Won’t you tell me when I wake up, Cole? When the world makes sense again? I never can ask things like this in a dream.

Maybe.

Cole is not Cole in the dreams because in dreams Cole is not just a boy with a funny hat and a worn sweater and bitten nails. In dreams, Cole becomes power and he’s confident when he steps and he takes up not-space so much easier than when he hunches and fidgets in walking-worlds.

Mahanon’s hand, the one who isn’t, on my thigh. Sleep, my face, he says into my skin and I look back at him with infinite longing, infinite rejection, and infinite hurt.

We have had lifetimes together. That’s as long as we can ever get.

The shortest unit of measurement.

Cole flickers in a way that is in the corner of my eye. Like closing my eyes in the walking-world and having someone run a flashlight over my face.

Wake me up, Cole. I ask because my heart can’t take this kind of longing for too much. Wake me up to guns and war and the fairy lights that are not fairies, but just a name Bull says. Wake me up to the fairy lights Bull held me up to put around the stone castle of a room Solas gave me and the swords that gleam on walls that Solas offers to paint bracketed with curtains Dorian and Josephine say will make the stone look more forgiving, when Varric says stone can never be that. Wake me up to the fluffy soft down blankets Vivienne presents to me, pink and white and lace and finery half my self will never know. Wake me up to the thin glossy pages of the picture stories Sera buys every week and keeps in cardboard boxes and reads out lout to me with the voices and sound effects like _ka-pow,_ and _bang-bang_ , and _shing_ , that we both know don’t happen in a real fight. I have never hit someone with this fist and heard the _ka-pow_ , sound, Cole. Wake me up to that world, please, I can’t take any more of this one.

Mahanon opens his eyes and smiles at me, once, never enough.

I didn’t say goodbye to him.

(Maybe if he had a cell phone?)

Yes.

-

Lavellan’s chin rests on her folded arms, knees tucked up to her chest.

Bull slowly eases himself into a squat, next to her, lowering his head to look at her face. She doesn’t look away, so that’s something.

Small battles are one thing, fighting for your life is another thing, fighting to survive is yet another thing. Declaring war and being the one to _start_ the attack? Leading the charge and ordering people into an all out confrontation?

That’s different. It’s a different mindset.

Lavellan may be good at ordering precision strikes, raids, break ins and ambushes. But all out warfare? Nah, she wasn’t trained for that. She was trained to care for people, everyone in her name is _hers_. They aren’t chess pieces or pawns, necessary sacrifices. She genuinely believes that she has to get all of them through safely.

That’s not her fault. It’s just the way she was raised. He bets that her Keeper never envisioned her leading an army, no group of numbers over thirty, tops.

Bull waits and he doesn’t say anything because he’s done this thing before.

“What do I have to do next?” Lavellan whispers and Bull knows that kind of fatigue, too. Just throw whatever it is in my way, I’ll do it. I’ll just keep doing it. Just don’t let me think.

And that’s _fine_. For a while. For some people.

Lavellan is not that _some people_.

His boss isn’t herself if she’s _not_ thinking about something or other. She’s always thinking, in her looped around way of hers. Even if she’s just staring at someone’s screen saver she’s thinking of something.

“What do you want to do next?” Bull asks, because it’s important to reminds her that what she wants matters.

She’s twenty two and young. She’s unused to the world and new to everything. What she wants matters.

Lavellan bites her lip and a furrow between her brows turns sharp.

“Whatever I have to do.” She says.

“Alright, fine. But what do you _want_?”

Her fingers curl in.

“It doesn’t matter.” She says, quiet and angry. Like he’s a teacher who’s making her say something she doesn’t want to say in front of the whole class. Like he’s making her read the correct answer when she just got it wrong.

“It matters.” Bull says, and this isn’t where he grasps the back of her neck or tilts her face. This isn’t where he puts his arm around her or where he rests his chin on the top of her head or any of that stuff she normally likes. This is the part where he says what she doesn’t want to hear because it’s going to hurt and make her want to cry.

Someone has to say it.

“Not really.” She says.

“It really does.” Bull replies and if he were the type this is where he _would_ light a cigarette.

“But it doesn’t.” She says, “Because I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not allowed to. Someone would say no. It’s not safe. I just can’t.”

“What is it?”

“I want to go home.” She says. “I want to stop fighting. I want my clan to be alive again. I want my face back. I want this mark gone. I want people to stop calling me the Herald of Andraste.”

“Alright.”

“But I can’t. Humans burned my home and killed my clan. I can’t stop fighting. I can’t bring the dead back to life. I can’t get rid of this mark. And no one listens to me when I tell them to stop it, so there’s no  point.”

“There’s a point.” Bull says, and this is where he puts his hand on the back of her neck and squeezes until she looks at him. “There is _always_ a point. What you want matters. You have to say it. Make them listen. _You matter_.”


	39. Chapter 39

After the whole _Josephine almost got married – what?!?_ debacle, someone – Cullen – ends up having to explain the concept of Andrastian marriage to Lavellan – which includes what he believes to be a gratuitous amount of heckling from their ever growing circle of friends.

(“But why does the dress have to be white? White is a terrible symbol for purity and chastity, Cullen. It’s very easy to get a white dress dirty, coincidentally is is very easy to lose your virginity. Why do they say _lose_ , Cullen? You can’t _misplace_ virginity. It’s not even that important, really. I mean, I didn’t _misplace_ mine.”

Krem and Dorian cough on their drinks and Bull’s gaze takes a speculative turn. Cullen quietly files this information away for later.

“Did she just imply what I think she implied?” Krem asks turning to Dalish who shrugs, smirks, and makes an obscene gesture that Cullen ignores.)

No one is surprised that the concept _has_ to be explained to her, nor is anyone surprised that she isn’t very interested in it.

“It all seems like a waste, really. All that money and time and energy spent just to say I care about you.” Lavellan mourns, “You don’t get married to _friends_.”

“It’s a little different than friendship.” Cullen says, “Though you would – ideally – be friends with your spouse.”

“Let’s just table the whole romantic, sexual, political aspect of it for later.” Dorian says, “Let’s just get through the idea of a ceremony for now.”

No one is surprised that Lavellan is mostly interested in the food part.

“Those are _cakes_?” Lavellan whispers, pressing herself against Grim’s side as he shows her wedding cake pictures on his _pininterest_.

“Layers,” Dorian whispers to Dalish, “Layers upon layers upon layers. It’s like one of those dolls and someday I’ll get to the small, tiny core of that doll and find this lima bean sized thing of _confusion_.”

“But what, in specific, makes them a wedding cake?” Lavellan asks.

“We’re going to put that aside for another day.” Krem says, “And take pity on the poor Commander of your Inquisition, who really doesn’t get paid for this.”

“You’d think that our outreach people would be the ones explaining this stuff to her.” Cullen muses, “But no.”

“I think that she makes them go insane.” Skinner says. “I’m keeping a record.”

What _does_ surprise people is that when Krem asks her who, if she would hypothetically have a traditional Andrastian styled wedding just for the hell of it, would walk her down the aisle?

Everyone present, Lavellan included, chooses to avoid the issue of her father being murdered by Andrastian devotees.

“Bull.” She says without hesitation.

Dorian squawks – and Cullen supposes less out of jealousy, because in all likelihood he’d be her best man – and Krem gapes. Dalish cackles and points at Bull’s face. Grim looks _pleased_.

Bull looks _glassy eyed_.

“Not Solas?” Skinner asks and Lavellan crosses her arms, frowning up at the ceiling as she tips her chair back.

“No.” She says, slowly tilting her head. “I don’t think he’d want to, even if I wanted him to. Hahren doesn’t _feel_ right. I’d want the Iron Bull to do it. The Iron Bull,” She turns to Bull who’s face has taken on that particular expression one puts on when they’re desperately trying to either not cry or not break down. “If I asked you to walk me down the aisle and – what was the phrase?”

“Give you away.” Cullen repeats. It took them half an hour alone to work her through that one.

“Yes. Give me away – but who owned me in the first place? I own myself. This is a very peculiar phrase. Are you certain it has nothing to do with slavery?”

“Mostly.” Dorian says. “Maker knows that if it did, we probably wouldn’t be using it so freely in Tevinter.”

“Would you do it?” Lavellan asks and Bull clears his throat.

“Course, anything for you, boss.”

“But in this situation I wouldn’t _be_ your boss.” Lavellan muses. “Would you do it even if I weren’t paying you?”

Bull closes his eye and attempts to – subtly – sniffle. Attempts to.

Cullen smirks and leans back in his own chair. It’s good when he isn’t the target of such situations. It’s _very_ good.

“Yeah.” Bull answers, voice sounding much gruffer than normal. “I would. Yeah.”

Lavellan beams and then turns to Cullen and Cullen feels his stomach drop.

“Would you officiate? Templars can do that, right?” Lavellan asks.

“Yes – I mean. Templars can officiate, yes.” Cullen says.

“I’d ask Cassandra, but I feel like Cassandra would be crying and I would also want her to be one of my maids of honor.” Lavellan says, turning to Grim, “How many maids of honors am I allowed to have?”

Grim rapidly starts googling it. Cullen’s never met a faster texter than Grim. This includes Varric. Cullen’s actually seen Varric write entire chapters of his novel and text them to his editor in under half an hour. It’s dizzying.

Cullen’s just glad he hasn’t sent any embarrassing typos in the past week. That he knows of.

“Would you?” Lavellan asks, leaning forward, the legs of her chair _thumping_ as she draws closer to him. Cullen clears his throat.

“Yes?”

Lavellan smiles and it’s like the sun has literally ripped the roof off of the building to shine down on them.

Lavellan directs her attention to Dalish in order to ask her if she’d be in charge of music and catering at this hypothetical wedding and Cullen breathes out a sigh of relief that he is no longer in the spotlight.

He and Bull exchange knowing glances.

Dorian and Krem laugh at them.

As if Dorian himself didn’t get misty eyed when Lavellan asked him to be her hypothetical best man.

“I want a wedding.” Lavellan declares, “I want to have a wedding. But without the Chantry stuff or the poofy dress. Is that possible? Can I have a wedding without those? Can we have baguettes? I like baguettes.”

“You’d need someone to get married to.” Dorian points out, “And since I’m already the best man, you’d have to think of someone else.”

“Krem.” Lavellan answers.

Everyone in the room turns to look at the man who rapidly fluctuates between going pale and bright, vivid red. Visible even with his tan.

Lavellan looks at him, expectant.

“I’m – uh.” Krem clears his throat and makes a vague gesture.

“Oh, right. You like the singer.” Lavellan says, frowning, “It’s not fair of me to ask you that. Cullen, is Rylen involved with anyone? He’s nice. Do you think he’d let me try getting married to him? I really just want a cake, to be honest.”

Cullen internally debates between asking Rylen flat out or assigning him to pike duty for the foreseeable future.

“Oh!” Lavellan exclaims. “ _Cole!”_


	40. Chapter 40

Blackwall watches with something he thinks is probably similar to resigned disappointment. The kind you get when you know something bad is going to happen, you hope it doesn’t – like a damn fool –, and then it happens and you can only sit back and watch it happen before your eyes.

Lavellan picks up the miniature table-top tennis table and uses it to smack the nearest brawling bar patron in the face.

“Is this why Bull always seems so excited when we go to local bars?” Lavellan asks, “This always happens to us, why do you think that is?”

“Because people are racists and touchy.” Varric says, and Blackwall wonders how much shit he’d be in if he just turned around, ignored this – honestly, she can handle herself, there’s no point in coddling her. She’s the _Inquisitor of Thedas_. – and finished his beer.

It’s good beer.

Sera has surprisingly good taste, for all that she likes to put melted nacho cheese over sour gummy worms.

(“I think it’s nice.” Lavellan wiggles one of the cheese and sugar crystal coated worms around on her paper plate, and laughs. “It tastes fun.”)

“It seems like so much trouble to be racist and touchy.” Lavellan says, and jumps onto the pool table, nimbly dodging fists, beer bottles, pool balls, and spit as she climbs onto the overhanging lights and watches the rest of the bar go down in chaos.

The bar tender is busy beating three men at once with a baseball bat.

They’d intervene, but the bar tender is on their side.

“I’m sort of glad the Enchanter isn’t here.” Varric says, “Because that’s exactly what this party needs. Frost.”

Madame de Fer is most likely still in their hotel room, ordering room service or something. Blackwall is pretty sure she’s the only one in the Inquisition who pays her own way all the time. Except, maybe, Dorian. Though that’s questionable because Dorian says he was recently disowned and cut off.

Doesn’t explain why he has so much stuff.

“I don’t think the Enchanter has ever had a tall frosty one in her life.” Blackwall says.

Varric snorts.

There’s a loud crash and both of them turn around – because sometimes you have to look at the car wreck – and the light fixture Lavellan was on has fallen onto the pool table, and on top of three people. Lavellan prods one with her toe and looks worried.

Blackwall reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out some money and a business card for the bartender to send the damages to.

He reaches over the bar and puts it down underneath some dry glasses and hopes it doesn’t get lost. The bar tender has moved on to throwing people out the windows.

Lavellan climbs down and takes some peanuts.

Varric whistles for her and she meanders her way over to them, stealing some pretzels, peanuts, and fries out of various dishes as she passes.

Blackwall says nothing because there really is nothing to say here.

-

“You would think that knitting would be a frustrating hobby for. Uh. A former templar.” Varric says and wonders where his words went.

Cullen continues to solemnly knit, as if he were building a bomb or sharpening a sword. Varric wonders if there’s anyone in this entire damned castle who can do anything normal without making it look weird.

The Iron Bull takes his tea with two sugars, no cream, and drinks with his pinky out.

It looks like he’s going down on someone.

Crazy shit.

Cullen pauses, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet bag and puts it on the table between them before resuming his knitting. He’s pretty good at it.

“I started off with these. That’s what they normally recommend for the withdrawal.” Cullen says, amiable and kind of nice for someone Varric used to piss off on a daily.

Varric opens the pouch and finds two weighted glass balls inside.

“You roll them between your fingers. They’re magnetized.” Cullen says, “It’s supposed to help with the fine motor functions.”

Varric tries it, the glass is slippery and he drops them a few times.

He can’t imagine how hard it must be for Cullen on his average days.

“I never liked them.” Cullen continues, “It gave me too much time for thought and self pity. Cassandra suggested knitting. It’s much harder, but it gives me something to think about. And it yields a tangible result. I’m sure it won’t surprise you, but tangible results are something I’m much more comfortable with. Progress is much easier to measure this way.”

Varric holds the weighted glass in his palm.

He wonders if this is where he apologizes for being such an asshole.

Cullen’s needles click in the semi-silence of the main hall. Quiet for a weekend afternoon.

“Do you think Sera would prefer a hat or a scarf?” Cullen asks, “I made Josephine a shawl. I’m working on making Rylen a muffler, but I’m almost done. I’m thinking of doing Sera, next. Winter in the mountains and all.”

Varric blinks at him.

“You’re asking me?”

“You get alone with Sera better than I do.” Cullen points out. “I’m too much authority and gravity. Not enough snickerdoodles. Apparently. I’m not exactly sure what that means. The second part.”

“Hat.” Varric says, “Can you do one with the little pom pom at the end? She likes those.”

Cullen nods his head.

“Why Sera next?”

“I’m alternating between men and women.” Cullen answers, “So I don’t get bored.”

“You know, I don’t think knitting patterns are assigned by gender.”

Cullen snorts, “No, but with the line up of Josephine, Leliana, Vivienne, _my sister_ , Dalish, Skinner, Lavellan, and Sera you’ll have to admit that there’s going to be a lot of overlap. Similarly, do you see Blackwall, Rylen, Solas, Dorian, Sutherland, Krem, Grim, Stitches, Rocky, or yourself wearing vastly different styles?”

“Point to the man with the needles. So where am I on this list?”

“At the end, because I’m doing the assholes last.” Cullen replies.

Varric snorts. “Just for that, I’m giving you even worse hair in the next novel.”

“And you wonder why I don’t read anything you write.”


	41. Chapter 41

“How charming.” Cassandra deadpans, when she goes to Lavellan’s rooms in a latch ditch effort to find someone with a modicum of authority. Bull just closes his eyes and sighs before half-heartedly raising a hand a saluting at her.

“Hey.” He says and Lavellan is face-first on her bed, one arm slung over Bull’s chest and one leg thrown over his legs. Cassandra is, to be frank, amazed that they both fit on the bed and that Bull hasn’t torn one of the gauzy curtains Blackwall and Josephine hung from her ceiling to create a sort of canopy bed for her. The fairy lights are just an extra touch.

Somehow it works with the bullet shells Varric glued to her ceiling.

“They make _stars_ ,” Lavellan said, “Look, I can make _all_ the constellations.”

“How did he get up there?” Blackwall asked.

“He stood on Bull’s shoulders.” Lavellan replied. As if it were the obvious answer. In hindsight, it probably was.

“Is this where you’ve both been all afternoon? Your company is going crazy looking for you.” Cassandra navigates her way through Lavellan’s floor maze of _things_. Solas has been in here recently, Solas and Bull are the only ones who make an attempt to clean up Lavellan’s organized messes. Bull mostly moves her piles away from the center of the room and uses them to make strategic obstacles to unwanted intruders. Sera found this out the hard way when she attempted to surprise Lavellan by coming in through the office window and stepped on some toy jacks. The  metal kind.

Sera was raging mad for _days_.

Not at Lavellan though. Cassandra has yet to meet someone who could actually be _mad_ at Lavellan. Excluding the obvious – people who are trying to kill them.

Solas is the one who makes the effort to make the piles disappear altogether. He doesn’t have much success at it for obvious reasons, but the point is that he tries and it’s greatly appreciated.

Cassandra wants to get him a present but she’s not sure what he would like. It seems inappropriate to get him a bottle of wine as a thank you for cleaning the Inquisitor’s room and generally keeping her well behaved. Not that she _isn’t_ well behaved.

Just that she’s -

Conditioned to behave in a way she perceives as good but is actually not usually acceptable in present company.

“That’s a lie. Cole was just in here a few minutes ago. I told him to go tell the guys I’m trapped with no way out, cut their losses, and high tail it outta here.”

Cassandra snorts, and after a moment of hesitation, sits on the edge of the bed, in the space left between Lavellan’s waist and her outflung arm. She wavers between petting Lavellan’s hair, as she’s seen the others do, and just leaving.

“She crashed pretty hard.” Bull says, and they watch as Lavellan snuffles a little in her sleep, turning her head and nuzzling into the crevice made by Bull’s outstretched arm and torso. There is a definite dip in the mattress that she’s rolled herself into. Bull carefully bends his arm and uses the tip of his thumb to stroke the crown of her head. “I guess that’s what happens when she’s got back to back meetings and travel, and can’t sleep on planes.”

Bull’s movement gives Cassandra enough courage to reach out and gently stroke Lavellan’s hair. It’s as soft as it looks.

“I’ll ask Josephine to reschedule as much as she can for the next week.”

Lavellan was extremely air sick, Cassandra still isn’t sure if Lavellan’s immune system hasn’t taken a blow from all the travel. It didn’t help that as soon as she got back to Skyhold they rushed her into a series of meetings and strategy sessions.

Lavellan’s leg twitches against Bull’s. Bull carefully moves her knee away from his groin. Cassandra feels the corner of her lip turn up.

“We kind of look like parents.” Bull says. “Am I the mom or the dad here?”

Cassandra continues to pet Lavellan’s hair. “She’s always wanted a dog to sleep with her on her bed.”

-

“Out of curiosity, if all of Skyhold were to into lock down right this second, how long would you last in here?”

Lavellan shrugs and then hangs off the edge of her bed, lifting up the bed skirt to stick her hand underneath and search around for something.

“You’ve got a connected bathroom. Your office and your room are connected. The door to your office locks. Your bedroom door locks as well, so you can avoid the windows in your office.” Dorian muses, “You’ve got books, a computer, a television – did Sera bring that console up from the break room?”

Lavellan hums, “I don’t know. But it came in a box.”

“Helpful.” Dorian says, “Her friends might have acquired it for you. I hope semi-lawfully or at least in a way that can’t be traced. You’ve got your en suite bathroom. And you have _food_. Mostly snack food, but still.”

Lavellan drags out a whicker basket full of bags.

“Do you want any?” She says, “I’ve got more.”

“Astounding.” Dorian says, “What’ve you got?”

“Chips in this basket.” She answers before reaching back underneath, legs idly kicking in the air as she searches. Dorian rests a hand on the small of her back. “I’ve got some cookies, biscuits, candy, multi-vitamins, water bottles, juice boxes, jerky, and those prepackaged little cakes in the plastic wrappers.”

Lavellan pauses and with a flourish brings out a lighter, a small gas tank, a hot plate, and a plastic tub of chemical equipment.

“Grim’s been teaching me how to cook.” Lavellan says, “Like a shem on the run. I didn’t know shems could be on the run. I think this version of _on the run_ is a lot fancier than what I know as on the run.”

“Entirely self sustainable.” Dorian repeats. “If Skyhold ever goes into lock down I’m making a break for your room.”

“That’s silly, Dorian. if Skyhold ever goes into lock down we have to figure out why.” Lavellan replies. “You want anything? I can toast marshmallows. I _love_ marshmallows. They’re addicting. I like the ones with the fruit fillings.”

“It’s not real fruit, you know. Got any chocolates?”

Lavellan ducks down again and pulls out an entire basket of the _fancy_ kind.

“Impressive.” Dorian says, “Is this where you’ve been keeping all those presents?”

“Only the ones I couldn’t give away.” Lavellan replies, rolling onto her back, resting her feet on the wall. “What’s with shems and covering things in chocolate, anyway? I got a chocolate orange. I didn’t know you could do that.”


	42. Chapter 42

“Sometimes I think I can still feel it. Somewhere, far away from here.” Lavellan says and Dorian resists the urge to _look_ , then resists the urge to look _away_ , and then at the same time resists the urge to just keep staring straight ahead at the road in front of them. “I can feel someone holding it. Holding me. I wonder if it’s him, or if it’s – if it’s just me imagining things. I hope it’s him. I like to think it’s him. Maybe it’s even – maybe it’s even Mahanon.”

Dorian doesn’t have much faith in what lies beyond. Dorian believes in a Maker but he isn’t sure if he believes in an after life. For Lavellan’s sake, he hopes there is, but he can’t find it in himself to fully put himself behind one.

Rain continues to patter against his windshield and Lavellan’s rubber rain boots squeak as she shifts in the seat, Dorian flicks the heater up as far as it will go.

They don’t teach you about what to say in these situations at boarding school. Not even the most posh of them. And Dorian’s been to the most posh of them, thank you.

“Do you think that he kept it, my hand, I mean?” She asks, “Or – do you think that my hand destroyed itself? Just – sucked itself into a paradox? Maybe my hand is just – lying somewhere in the Fade.”

Dorian swallows and risks a glance at her. He doesn’t know if it’s worse or better that she isn’t looking at him. She’s slouched a little, burrowed into her scarf and the high collar and hood of her jacket. Cullen knitted that scarf for her, ages ago. He’s surprised it held this long. She tends to put her clothes through so much wear and tear.

Lavellan is perhaps the only person Dorian knows with a full wardrobe custom made for her and still looks like it came out of a department store. She’s also the only one he knows who can get clothes custom made on demand. She could ask for a full winter line up and have it ready for her to pick up within _days_.

Vivienne and Josephine _love_ her to pieces.

Dorian does, too.

Dorian reaches over and rests his hand on her leg, because she doesn’t – she doesn’t have a hand to touch anymore, and her right arm is curled around her stomach. Defensive and tired and vulnerable all at once.

Sometimes there are wounds that just never heal.

Fathers and their children.

(For all that he was not her father, he was all she had. It hurts that they weren’t enough, but he understands. Dorian really, really does.

He imagines losing Alexius and his own Father at once, his love and hope and admiration for them both combined into one, and stripped away at once.

Everything inside himself rebels at the idea of the loss.)

And as if he had just given her permission, maybe he did, she starts talking in earnest. The way she used to, but in this new – desperate, frantic way she’s turned to. Gently bobbing and meandering flower to chaotic and turbulent torn leaf in the storm. Dorian squeezes her leg underneath his palm and he feels her thigh muscles tense as she pushes her heels against the floor of his car.

“I keep imagining holding that hand back. If it’s his. Holding that hand and just pulling him back to me but I can’t. I just _can’t do it_. And I’m. I want to go home, Dorian. I want to go home. I know that I used to say that home is where I am, that I can carry my home with me but I think that’s just because _I didn’t know what home could be_. I had Mahanon and I had my clan but it wasn’t ever really home because we were always moving. It was nice – they were nice. We were family, lethallin. But it’s not the same.”

Dorian’s heart and eyes sting.

“He took it.” She says, sounding half angry and half afraid and entirely longing – the kind of longing Dorian can understand, _I trusted you, and you hurt me_ , the kind of longing that comes from _knowing_. “He gave it to me. He gave it to me and then he took it away. I used to have something of my own left but now that’s gone because he took that, too. He took it all away and I can’t go back to the way it was before. I can’t even try to start over. I know and I can’t have it because _he took it_. I can’t go back. I can’t go home anymore.”

Parts of Dorian still call Skyhold home, for all that he’s semi-moved back to Tevinter for good. Sometimes he still wakes up and thinks that he’s going to walk down castle hallways to the large communal dining hall for breakfast. Sometimes he still wakes up smelling paint and old books, and birds. Sometimes when he opens a bar door he expects Bull and Krem to be there, occasionally when he gets his mail he’s confused as to why it isn’t opened or stamped with the Spymaster’s seal of approval. He calls out and no one answers. Dorian’s own home is no longer home. It’s _empty_.

Sometimes, Dorian wakes up and doesn’t understand why his ceiling is so close and why there are so few covers on his bed.

(And sometimes, Dorian spends hours trying to go to sleep without listening for the sounds of guards, the whistle of wind through castle cracks and windows, and of course the telltale sound of Lavellan coming into his room to sleep next to him. Her body, his body, warmth shared, so much love without question that it makes Dorian _wish_.)

Lavellan’s breath hitches but she doesn’t cry.

There isn’t a damned thing Dorian can say or do in this situation to make it better. Solas, himself, could be in this car at this very moment and he couldn’t do shit.

There is absolutely nothing that can fix this.

But if there’s one thing Dorian’s learned from her, it’s that sometimes people don’t need fixing. He isn’t broken.

Lavellan isn’t broken.

So Dorian switches on his turn signal, pulls over careful of the mud and water flow, puts the car in park and switches on the hazard lights. Dorian slides his seat back as far as it will go, unbuckles his seat belt and unbuckles hers.

She climbs over the console and curls up into his arms, hitching breath without crying at all and Dorian holds her.

That’s all you can do sometimes.

It rains, the car makes the little click sounds it does when you turn on your hazard lights and don’t have a seat belt on, Lavellan cries without crying, and Dorian’s heart keeps trying to call her home.


	43. Chapter 43

“You know, there are a lot of theories floating about on how you had that administrator murdered.” Bull says, “Care to enlighten me on any of them? Just for reference.”

Leliana smiles, “We don’t talk about murder in polite company.”

“Since when am I polite company?”

“True. But a girl must have her secrets, how else is she to get by in this world?”

“With murder, probably.” Bull says, “Fine, keep your secrets. I just wanted you to know that I’m a fan of your work, is all. Skinner, too.”

“Is that why I’ve gained a new shadow?” Leliana muses, “I feel flattered.”

“You should be, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Skinner be besotted before. Frankly, it’s putting me off.”

-

As he fell, he waited for the inevitable chorus of laughter, the pain, and of course, the terrible and humiliating sensation of falling down a flight of stairs for no reason in front of an entire crowd of people.

Much to Dorian’s surprise, he does not fall.

He feels an arm go around his waist and when Dorian opens his eyes he’s face to face with Lavellan. She beams at him.

“I caught you!” She laughs, and Dorian stares at her because this is absolutely ridiculously cliche.

She caught him on a flight of stairs around the waist like he’s a damsel in one of Varric’s shitty romance novels.

“Maker’s _balls_.” Dorian covers his face with his hand. “You didn’t happen to catch any of the books I dropped, did you?”

Lavellan tilts her chin past him, Dorian turns his head and Cole is standing at the bottom of the stairs with Dorian’s books.

“You should be more careful, Dorian. I only have one of you.” She says, and pecks him on the cheek. “What would I do without you?”

Dorian pats her cheek as he rights himself, and she hugs his middle.

Dorian much prefers being caught falling down the stairs then kissed by the Herald of Andraste than falling and humiliating himself.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage. Your life would be that much duller and less beautiful, but you’d manage.”

Lavellan laughs and they proceed down the stairs together.

“Not that I’m ungrateful for your lucky save, but what brings you out here for such fortunate timing?”

“Oh, we’re hiding from Cassandra.” Lavellan says, “She looked angry and we thought it might be about us, so we decided to just stay out of her way for a while.”

“That would make her more angry, if she were angry at you. Is she angry at you?”

“That depends on whether she knows about the thing or not.”

“The thing?”

Lavellan nods solemnly, “The thing.”

Dorian looks at Cole for clarification. Stupid move on his part, but there you have it.

Cole pulls at the bill of his hat – a new one, one of Varric’s. Varric is the only person Dorian knows who actually thinks Kirkwall’s soccer team stands a chance at anything – down a little and mumbles something about _sweets that melt, lovingly, soft, like rain and tears and joy on the tongue, a warmth that spreads like the sun through clouds, I have come home from so far away, these are the arms that welcome me -_

Dorian sighs.

“The thing.”

Lavellan and Cole nod in tandem, pleased that Dorian has just _accepted_ their vagueness.

“The thing.”

-

As Sera stopped to catch her breath, she looked back and instantly regretted stopping, but fuck she isn’t some track and field trophy winner. She doesn’t train like the Seeker and Bull.

“I hate this.” Sera says, “I’ve got mud in my shoes. I can feel my toes _squelch_. Yuck. Ugh. So gross. _So gross_.”

“If you stop running you might stop breathing.” Varric says.

“I can’t run anymore! _I’ve already stopped breathing.”_ Sera complains, but forces herself to keep going anyway. Her legs are burning.

“Look,  you want to be as far away as possible from the angry, raging bears that are the size of monster trucks.” Varric says.

“I think we lost them though.” Sera says, “I don’t see them.”

“You want to risk it?”

“Shit, no.” Sera groans, “I hate this. I hate Orlais.”

“But you love their food so much.”

“I _do_.” Sera grinds her teeth and resists the urge to punch a tree. No one’s the winner there.

In the distance they hear a loud roar followed by another slightly lower roar.

“They’re fighting the bear in the middle of the fucking night with their bare hands.” Sera says, “What kind of fucking idiots are these people?”

“The brave kind that die young and end up becoming pop icons.” Varric replies. “Should we go back for them?”

“Probably, yeah, but I can’t move anymore. You go on ahead.”

“I’m getting too old for this this.” Varric says but goes back in the direction they just came from, anyway. When we get back to base, I’m telling Lavellan that to her face.”

-

“It would be easy enough to discredit her.” Dorian says, eyes narrowed as he watches Vivienne across the room.

“Don’t.” Solas says without looking.

“Don’t what?”

“Start what you can’t finish.”

“I could take her.” Dorian says. “I could take her and I could totally snag that grant from her. I could do it. I can take her.”

Solas shakes his head. “You are shooting yourself in the foot.”

“Are you on her side?”

“I’m on neither of your sides. I’m just telling you that it’s a bad idea. Both of you represent the Inquisition. It doesn’t look good if you both try to sabotage each other.”

“Ugh.” Dorian wrinkles his nose, “Must you talk sense all the time?”

“Seeing as neither of you two will, I’ve been forced to. It’s incredibly draining.” Solas deadpans, “I long for the days when I could return to my wild and youthful trickster origins.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “You aren’t funny.”

“Oh, that’s just because you don’t know the joke.” Solas replies and when Dorian turns to look at him, Solas has vanished in that peculiar way he has.

And they call _Dorian_ dramatic.


	44. Chapter 44

It’s one of his bad days. Cullen finds that his bad days are coming more and more, now. Now that the good days are much more needed. It figures, because of course that’s how things would go.

Cullen wanted to go down to his office, he wanted to. He wants to. But he can’t find it in himself to get off the floor, put on his uniform, and go down the ladder. Instead he lies there on his bare floor, eyes closed, throat burning, hands shaking, and skin feeling like it’s turning into the most beautiful crystal. He is being enveloped in a chrysalis, like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

And like that caterpillar, he is becoming undone, slowly. He’s losing the shape of himself. It’s all turning into unrecognizable liquid, all of it fading away – out of his control, out of his understanding.

Sounds and sensations aren’t _right_ and everything is tinged blue, blue, blue, bracingly beautiful _blue_. Cullen’s eyes are closed but that doesn’t stop the blue. Not at all. He can taste the echo of it. Feel it on his skin. _Hear it calling to him, from so far away – it could all be over, there’s a single vial in his kit down the ladder, come for me, come, come, come, love me like you want to, devour me whole -_

Cullen’s fingertips scrape against the wooden floor and it’s a mixed blessing that he can’t make it down the damned ladder.

Leliana keeps telling him to get some damned stairs, but Cassandra understands.

Sometimes the ladder is the obstacle between his shaking hands and liquid limbs and the thing that started it all.

There are no AA groups for former templars. If you were a good templar – Cullen wasn’t, clearly – then the Chantry puts you in a home with the rest of the good ones. Living out the rest of your addled days in bland comfort you won’t even recognize.

If you were a bad templar – Cullen, now, years later, when it’s too late to count – you die, miserable and insane somewhere far, far, far away.

Sometimes Cullen _wishes_ death were so easy, but no, it isn’t.

The blue wants you alive.

It _wants to live inside of you_ , make a home in you – it is _my home, it is my place, I am me because of it, I am my best with it, I should be taking it -_

Cullen would bite down on his lip if he could move his jaw.

Everything is both far away and too close. Too close for understanding. It takes him what he thinks is five minutes to sort out the strange metallic echoing he hears to be soldiers – my soldiers, my men, _I should be leading them, I should be standing with them, take it, take it._ Stop. – practicing drills.

It takes him even longer to sort out the strange, low sound to be the sound of birds flapping their wings. For a while he’s stuck on the strange hum that makes his jaw tight – as if something were approaching from far, far away, coming closer and closer, unwanted and angry and unsettling -  that eventually resolves itself into the air conditioner. His stomach churns. So much blue liquid.

Cullen loses time. He’s certain that Leliana knows by now the reason why he hasn’t shown his face today – or, however long the day has been present.

He fully expects to ride this out in the peace and torment of his own private misery when he hear-feels someone settling down behind him.

It’s in his worst moments that his worst instincts rear up. The echo of lyrium that refuses to leave tells him who it is.

And he’s so angry that he’s black with it, surging up inside of him and locking all of his joints and muscles. Why didn’t they stop her from coming? He can’t be seen by her like this – he’s – for fuck’s sake, he’s not even wearing any _pants_. Maker -

Her hand rests on his head, blessedly cool.

“Don’t be upset.” She says, voice low and clear, “Cole told me this morning. I only came when it got too hard for you to bear alone.”

Agonizingly slowly he feels her stretch out behind him on the floor, and she presses her face into the back of his neck. Her mouth presses to the damp skin there, a child’s kiss. She puts her lips there and leaves them, a gentle touch. He’s hyper aware of the sound her eyelashes make as they slowly flutter half closed and rasp against his hair.

Her hand rests on his side and her knees briefly touch against the backs of his.

She hums, lips against his skin and somehow it’s worse and better. Worse that he’s in this state and she’s here when she should be doing other things – why couldn’t they just leave him be? _Why did she have to come?_

And better all at once because it’s always better not to be alone. As much as he hates to be seen.

-

“You know how we thought that she was hard to understand when she talks?” Varric says and Cassandra cautiously answers, “Yes.”

Varric holds his phone out to her.

Cassandra takes it and grimaces at the screen.

“What is this?”

“Did you know that you could get the _wingdings_ font for your phone’s keyboard. And that Lavellan did that, then created some sort of bastardized combination of it with an text emoji keyboard, a regular emoji keyboard, and then got extra creative by throwing in some Dalish symbols to create her own language? That she somehow expects all of us to understand in that creepily endearing way she’s got? No? Well, now you do.”

“What _is this_?” Cassandra repeats.

“Copy paste that to Bull and ask him the same question you just asked me.” Varric says.

Cassandra does exactly that because her irritation at Varric telling her what to do is deeply outweighed by the growing horror and headache that Lavellan’s latest personality trait is threatening her with.

Bull immediately starts typing back and Cassandra turns to Varric as Bull types out his response.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Two months. I figured you didn’t know because Bull says you’re the only one who doesn’t text him to decode it. Even Solas has to ask him to decode for him sometimes. I mean, I think Chuckles gets the gist of it occassionally, but he goes to Bull anyway. For details.”

“Two _months_? How has she been communicating with anyone? How does anything get _done_? We don’t pay Bull to do this. You can’t have him be doing this all the time. It isn’t his _job_.”

“He does what we pay him to do. And we pay him to take care of our girl. This is probably part of it.” Varric says, “What’d he say?”

Cassandra looks down and there’s a fully translated text from Bull.

“Varric, I’ve been studying dwarven stories and some of them don’t make sense to me and I need you to explain rocks. I asked Dorian but he started talking about geology and minerals and I don’t quite understand the difference between a rock, a mineral, and a gemstone. I think you explain things better and why are karats and carrots so similar, is there a reason for that, do you think Solas would know?”

Cassandra switches back to Lavellan’s chat and then to Bull’s again.

“How did he get that?”

Varric shrugs and takes his phone back. “For your future reference, Bull will translate these texts any time. Sera sent him one at like, two in the morning when he was – uh. Occupied. And he answered back immediately. I don’t know about the logistics of it, but he’s weirdly invested in making sure Lavellan’s communications get across.”

“Thank you for the details.” Cassandra deadpans. “Feel free to never share them with me again.”

“But you got so mad the last time I invited friends over – joking! Joking! Just a joke!”


	45. Chapter 45

“What’s wrong with her?” Cullen asks as Josephine stares at her phone in horror. Cassandra looks at Josephine then back at Cullen and rolls her eyes.

“She’s panicking over nothing. Again. Halamshiral tends to do that to a person.”

Not Leliana, Cullen thinks.

Last he saw, Leliana was smiling down at the populace from her balcony window like some sort of super villain from a child’s cartoon. Complete with conveniently placed shadows and everything.

“I _locked the Herald of Andraste out of her own suite_.” Josephine whispers, “I locked her out of her own suite and now I’ve _lost her_. She’s going to get killed or arrested or _die_. I’ve killed the Herald of Andraste.”

“Something, that I notice, the combined armies and bureaucracies of the nation have failed to do.” Cullen deadpans, gesturing for Josephine’s phone. She hands it over to him and puts her head in her hands. Probably to keep herself from hitting her head against a wall. Cullen can understand the urge. He’s often faced with it when dealing with the rest of the Inquisition.

Cullen feels something inside of him laugh, only slightly hysterically, when he reads the series of texts.

“Of course she’d say this.” Cullen says, “Because _she has legs_.”

“And she can use them.” Cassandra finishes. “Honestly, if people thought more like her around Halamshiral I think I would like it here more. Less incessant whining and inability to deal with small annoyances and more people getting things done.”

“She’s been locked out of her hotel room suite so she’s decided to _climb the nearest building and rappel her way over.”_ Cullen says, “That’s not a small annoyance and that’s not – _no.”_

Cullen pulls out his own phone and starts texting all of his squadrons and patrols immediately.

“This was only five minutes ago. She couldn’t have made her way into any sort of particularly nasty trouble in that time period.”

“Don’t sell the Herald of Andraste short.” Cassandra says, stretching her arms above her head before she starts going through her suitcase. Cullen chooses to ignore the fact that Cassandra has somehow smuggled an entire _shield_ in her carry on, when Cullen could barely get away with his shaving kit.

It’s either because she’s foreign royalty or because she’s scared the TSA into going blind white with fear every time she approaches.

“She’s turned her phone off.” Josephine says, lying down on one of the two full beds in the room.

Cullen just wanted to ask if they needed ice.

Bull warned him to leave them alone, but he never listens and this is what he gets for it. This is what he gets for trying to be polite to his coworkers.

He gets the Herald of Andraste _rappelling_ around the capital city of Orlais during one of the most hectic times of the year when everyone who’s anyone has gathered for assassinations, plots, intrigue, and dubious actions of semi-import.

“I should’ve fucking sent Rylen.”

-

“I did not fall in love with Dorian, as if I were so careless with something and someone so important.” She says. “Love is so heavy, it’s so powerful. I’m not that careless with it, hahren.”

“But you love him.” Solas says and it is part jealousy and part fascination. Jealousy that she could love so easily – did he ever love like that? Did anyone he ever knew love like that?

Not even Mythal, in her glory as the _Mother_ could be said to love so generously.

“Yes. I looked at him and I judged him. I looked at him and spoke to him and saw him and was witness to him.” Lavellan says, smiling at her hands, “And I decided that what I witnessed was worthy of me and what is mine. And so I love Dorian. And I love him a little bit more every day. And that is how I love. A little bit at a time, a weighted measure. And I love Cole, I love the Iron Bull, and I love _you_.”

Solas doesn’t flinch for that because he’s used to being hurt by the things he wants most.

“There are others I could love.” Lavellan says, “But I haven’t decided on them, just yet.”

“And you’ve decided on me – on us?”

“Yes.” Lavellan says and turns her eyes onto him.

“I do not fall in love with any of you, but I do choose to love you all the same.” She smiles. “And I think that ultimately that’s the best way to go about it, for me, at least. Are you against that?”

 _You are young, and you do not know how to judge people._ Solas thinks, _You are so very, very young and naive, and this will hurt you._

It is the role of the elder to protect their student, Solas remembers from a time that’s faded from understanding.

He has done wrong by her and he will continue to do wrong by her. The words are stuck in his throat.

A choked back howl.

A whimper, really.

“No.” Solas says, “I am not.”

“Good. I know you have problems with both Dorian and the Iron Bull.” She says, reaching out and grasping his hand in hers, “But at the very least, you have me in common.”

-

“What’s a caucus? Is it a naughty word? Is it a mix of a naughty word and a silly word?” Lavellan asks and Sera opens her mouth to answer.

“Look, it’s almost midnight, we’ve been on the road since the ass crack of dawn. We’re in a really shitty motel. Let’s not get into politics and how politics works just yet.” Blackwall says, “We’ve got the entire car ride back to Skyhold for that nonsense.”

Sera glares at him and throws his foil wrapped hamburger at him before reaching back into the plastic take-out bag for her veggie-wrap.

“Don’t get Sera started, kid.” Bull says as he gently nudges her out of the doorframe so he can bring the rest of their luggage into the room.

The clerk at the front desk looked kind of scandalized that the three of them were sharing a room with the Herald of Andraste.

But if they left Sera and Lavellan in a room alone together they’d end up talking the whole night, finishing the entire mini-bar, and maybe getting bedbugs.

Josephine isn’t going to let that shit fly. So she told Bull and Blackwall that under no circumstances are they to have a repeat of last time, so here they are, all sharing one room with two beds.

The way it turns out is that Bull is probably going to have to share with either Sera or Lavellan and Blackwall is going to have to share with the other one.

Bull and Blackwall aren’t _both_ fitting onto one of these floral printed deathtraps.

If there were a sofa Blackwall’d probably sleep on it.

The only reason he isn’t sleeping in the car is because Lavellan bullied him into the room with her sad and concerned face.

Kill them with kindness, or something like that.

“There are posters for it all over.” Lavellan says, “And pictures of animals, but I don’t quite understand what they mean.”

“Tomorrow.” Blackwall repeats even as Sera opens her mouth to answer. “And don’t talk with your mouth full of your veggie garbage. It’s disgusting.”

Sera makes a point of obnoxiously chewing as loudly as possible in his direction.

Bull reaches around them both to get to the rest of the food and pats the space on the bed next to him. Lavellan bounces onto the bed before sliding into the dip his body makes. Lavellan happily rests against his side as he pulls out her sandwich and fries.

“What’s an electorate?” Lavellan asks, Bull and Blackwall exchange glances before Bull sighs and pulls out the Styrofoam container that they were going to save for a last ditch distraction. Which is apparently needed right now because Josephine is psychic and knew something like this would happen.

“You’ve never tried funnel cake, have you?” Bull asks, and Lavellan is as appropriately awed by the deep fried confection as they figured she’d be.

“Save it or the car.” Blackwall and Bull hiss at Sera as Lavellan marvels at the sugar coated heart attack. “Or we won’t be able to get shit done because we’re dead on our feet. Then Josephine _and_ Cassandra will be on our asses.”


	46. Chapter 46

“I don’t like the fax machine number ten in our backroom administrations office and it doesn’t like me.” Lavellan declares to the breakfast hall, at large one morning. Half the assembled soldiers are used to such declarations and continue to mechanically go through breakfast, half asleep, with vague murmurs of understanding and acknowledgement. As one does when someone says something completely out of the blue and ridiculous and your mind is preoccupied with other things.

Another fourth chooses not to react.

The last quarter is still dazzlingly fresh to the whole Inquisition and Inquisitor, and so they stare at her with slack-jawed awe and reverence that a declaration about faxes probably should not illicit. Though it is appropriate for seeing the Inquisitor of Thedas, the first one in _centuries_ , standing on top of a table in a renovated castle-slash-military-base, wearing fluorescent orange athletic shorts -

Bull says they make her easier to track. Dorian and Vivienne both, for once, mutually agree – loudly and with enthusiasm – that it makes everyone surrounding want to put their eyes out. Especially when she goes out into the sun.

\- a rather large T-shirt that _definitely does not belong to her_ that threatens to slip off of one shoulder, and no shoes.

Her hand chooses that particular moment to flicker to life, green against orange, and Vivienne pointedly turns the other direction, even though that means turning to look at Sera.

Sera, for once, seems to be in agreement with Dorian and Vivienne, and the two share a commiserative grimace.

Blackwall clears his throat and Lavellan looks down at her other hand, squints -

“Oh. And you all are doing a wonderful job, the strawberry ambrosia should not be eaten past lunch, we’re working on solving the problem in the men’s latrines in the seventh barrack station, if you didn’t bring it don’t touch it still applies to condiments in the break room unless otherwise stated, and the owner of the bright blue electric mini-car that’s parked in Skyhold’s fourth lot needs to move it. It’s for expecting mothers and you clearly aren’t expecting if your car is that small.”

Lavellan turns around and looks at Cassandra, who is firmly in the first half of the crowd aforementioned. Cassandra grunts into said strawberry ambrosia, head rested on her hand as Cullen steadily pours more and more sugar into her coffee.

Lavellan beams and back flips off the table, directly into a sitting position next to Krem, who – without looking – aims a piece of buttered toast straight into her open mouth.

“I don’t know if her morning speeches are inspirational or maddening.” Dorian says, “Which is why I make it a point to only make it for the dismount.”

“Only one such as you could get away with that, darling. And you look awful today, lose sleep over that formula?”

“I slept perfectly _fine_ , thank you. And that’s one thing about being a Tevinter pariah I can be grateful for.”

-

“Does her phone just automatically send back the word _okay_ and a smiley face? Does she read anything we send her?” Cassandra asks, thrusting her phone under Cullen’s nose. “Explain this.”

“Sera figured out a program that auto replies to everything you send to her with the word _okay_ and a random emoji off her various keyboards.” Cullen replies, reaching into his front shirt pocket and holding out his phone to her.

Cassandra, of course, knows his pass code.

Someone has to when he’s unable to answer his phone.

(Cullen doesn’t like to think about all the times she’s had to answer his phone or look up his information on his phone for him because his hands shake so hard that he can’t even grasp his own wrists, or when his ears ring so much he can’t walk straight and his vision goes white-blue so fast that he has to sit down before he hurts himself. Cullen doesn’t like thinking about those times so Cassandra does the thinking for him.

He doesn’t deserve her. Really._

“And we permit this?”

“Realistically, we don’t permit anything.” Cullen points out, “She just _goes_ and does things and we make do. I mean, in theory we could send her to bed without supper because of all things that works, but the kitchen staff hate my guts as it is.”

Cassandra snorts.

“No, really. The last time I sent her to bed without supper the cafeteria staff gave me nothing but burnt scrapings from whatever they were serving that day.” Cullen says, “And stale water.”

“They like you.” Cassandra waves her hand, “Half of them are in your fanclub. The other half are on the waiting list.”

“There’s a waiting list, now?”

“They can’t process everyone and get them sorted. They also need a bigger meeting room. Be flattered, Commander. Most of them are your soldiers. They like your leadership.”

“They like _something_ ,” Cullen laughs, “I’m not particularly sure it’s my poor and somewhat grumpy leadership.”

Cassandra smirks, “There’s something I could say here that I won’t, and you’ll thank me when Leliana says it for me, the next time you make a similar remark to her face.”

“Is that a warning to watch my wording from now on?”

“It’s a warning in general.” Cassandra replies and goes back to frowning at their phones. “This is a liability.”

“This is Lavellan learning technology, one loophole at a time.” Cullen says, “And half the time she’d say yes, anyway.”

“I texted her to tell her that Josephine was incredibly surprised and pleased with the tea Lavellan surprised her with. That’s not a yes or no question.” Cassandra replies, “Though I suppose this is something about picking my battles, isn’t it?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.” Cullen confirms, nodding his head, “On a somewhat related note, did Josephine receive my requisition form? I asked Lavellan if she brought it with her to her weekly check-in with Josephine but – well. You can see how that went. I only ask because I do need it somewhat rushed.”

“I signed off on it yesterday morning.” Cassandra says, “In this case, she really did mean _okay_. And – incredibly appropriately, an emoji of a knife with blood on it.”


	47. Chapter 47

She hasn’t seen one of her people in what feels like _years_.

Solas, Dalish, and Skinner are different. Solas rejects everything Dalish, Skinner was a city elf and her ways are slightly different. Lavellan is still finding this out as they fumble their way through their cobbled together languages that only translate right with each other half the time.

Dalish is one of the people, but Dalish has been among the shem for a long time. She _knows_.

And the Dalish who come to Skyhold _come to her_.

She has not been among the people, where she used to belong -

It’s been too long.

It feels _good_ and _right_ when the Keeper Hawen tells her to prove herself, to be _da’len_ properly and pass his scrutiny. It feels right and it feels proper and it feels like she’s moving among her people again, the right way.

She isn’t a Keeper yet. Not a real Keeper and she isn’t _supposed_ to be ordering everyone around. Not here. It chafes that they think she has gone completely shem, but she understands because the clans of the Dirth have always been cautious. How else could they survive the Dirth?

It stings but it feels good at the same time.

This is what Solas could never understand, though she claims him as hahren.

The da’len _learns_ , the da’len _serves_ , the da’len is tested, the da’len must be _proven_.

The da’len listens, the da’len obeys.

That is what it means to be _da’len_.

“You are the _Inquisitor_.” Cassandra says, taking her elbow, “You cannot be seen caving to the whims of an unknown.”

“He is a hahren, and he is not unknown.” She whispers back. “And it is because I am the Inquisitor that I must make him _see me_.”

More than anything, she wants to be seen as herself.

Da’len, child of the People, _elvhen._

_More than anything else._

Here among her people, for just a little bit, she can pretend to be that, and only that, again.

There is respect because she is of the twin souls, sorrow and pity and empathy because she has lost her twin – it stings, on the good days, it renders her immobile on the worst – and there is curiosity and caution and there is so much freedom that it makes her lungs tremble with every breath.

It feels good. It feels _so good_.

(I don’t want to go back.)

Keeper Hawen takes her aside early in the morning after she returns from tracking some of their halla, just to make sure they haven’t gone too far -

“What you want is not always on the path the Gods choose for you to take.” He says and she listens even though her heart tells her to close her ears. She has always been bad at listening to her heart. “What you wish, what soothes you, what makes you feel yourself are not always within your grasp or written upon your destiny. It is a hard path you walk on – Lavellan and Inquisitor –, it is a harder path that you must _lead_. But that is what it means to be First, to be Keeper. They look to you, and so you must look ahead for them, rather than inwards for yourself.”

“The teachings of the vir Atish’an teaches us that we must always remain true and honest to ourselves, so that we may connect and understand others, and be understood with clarity.” She says, eyes dropping to his chin, his chest, his feet, unwilling to look at the truth.

“The vir Atish’an is a noble and true path, daughter of the people. I know the teachings of the _elgar’vhen_ , and there is always one of the path of peace, and one of the path of the hunt. It is their way, and if things were any different, you would have done the code proud. You are a good daughter of the path of peace, and you would have flourished under it. There is no doubt in my mind that you are of Lavellan, and that your Keeper would have been able to pass the title to you with complete assurance. But you are no longer First, for you are now Inquisitor. Your path, by its nature, cannot be that of the vir Atish’an.”

Keeper Hawen’s eyes are kind but firm when he forces her to meet his gaze. He touches her chin with his fingertip, and her heart aches for her lost clan.

“The vir Tanadhal is the path on which the Dalish as a whole have understood as the path of endurance. But it is also the path of sacrifice. All paths require it, but the vir Tanadhal is the one which demands it within its very phrasing.”

“Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn.”

“Yes. Someone sacrificed for you. You must sacrifice for someone else, in turn. That is the path you must walk. You will survive it. You will lead. You will not waver.”

“Fly straight and do not waver.” She repeats, dutiful, even as Keeper Hawen tells her what she has known for a very long time.

Keeper nods.

“I will leave today.” She says, and forces her throat not to close.

“No longer are you of the Dalish, you are of the People – and you do us proud – but you are no longer of us. You are not of the Dalish, nor are you the same as our urban cousins. You are no shemlen, or traitor of our kind. You are the Inquisitor. And so you stand above us all, and away.” He kisses her forehead and she closes her eyes and wills herself to _let go_ of the knot in her heart. “Inquisitor Lavellan, your people need you.”

“Yes, Keeper Hawen.” Lavellan says and straightens her back. She looks him in the eye. “Andaran atish’an.”

She holds her hand up and signs, he signs back at her. Leader of the Inquisition to Keeper.

“Andaran atish’an.”

-


	48. Chapter 48

Heart aching, mind going astray, body falling apart -

But now she knows what it means to be so in love, and so loved, so completely full of it and sorrow and hurt and joy and pain and comfort that it feels _alright_ if this is how it will end.

I touch her face with my fingertips, because I made it. I came for you. Like you always come for us, just when we need you most.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get here fast enough. I would have made it not hurt.”

Her eyes flutter, softly, and open, just a little. So much blood. So much hurt. How could this ever be made better?

Compassion feels too small for this.

“It will always hurt.” She says, and I am not a mage, Cole was once a mage, but I am not Cole, and now I think I wish I was Cole. I think Cole would wish he were Cole, as well.

If I had come sooner, I could have made it not hurt. My knives aren’t for hurting. Not her. Never her.

I lean down over her, as if I could block the world from hurting her with my shadow. Compassion can’t do that.

Pride can do that.

Pride is the cause. Pride is the effect.

There’s too much blood.

“The others?” She whispers, and I have to lean so very close to hear her. I could see and hear her from so far away before. She was so brilliant. She’s fading fast, all new faded, _her_.

“Coming.” I tell her, “Running, racing, reaching for you. Don’t let go. Stay.”

Her eyes close and there is only one hand left to hold and I don’t know if it will be enough to hold us all together while holding herself here.

He took the other one. _He took it away._ Was it always his hand?

“Don’t cry.” She says, and the one hand she has left for herself reaches out for me, and touches my face. Cold and warm. I do not like this feeling. I want to put it all back inside of her. Where it needs to be. It knows it needs to be inside of her, too. But it can’t find its way back.

What is spilled cannot be returned.

She shushes me. I continue to cry.

“Thank you.” She says, so much blood, so many tears, so much hurting.

“I can feel them. They’re close.” I touch her forehead, and I smooth hair back, blood streaks underneath my shaking fingers. This is what Bull and Cassandra and Cullen see on the backs of their eyelids. This is what Blackwall sees whenever he sees a child. What Varric sees when he thinks of _home_.

This is what I see when I think of Pride.

I can feel the static of their radios, the clink of their contained vials of lyrium.

“Stay.” She whispers, so faint she is not speaking. Calling with her heart. I listen.

“I will.” I say, because no one else has listened to that cry before. I will, though. “You stay, too.”

Her eyes close. I close around her.

Hold and held.

-

The room was no longer the same to her.

Cullen watches as Lavellan walks around the small little office attached to the stables. A cot against one wall. A desk, a standard issue trunk. Empty. She touches her fingertips to a calendar on the wall. Writing, not his, making little notes.

She sweeps her foot out on the ground, toes brushing against the threadbare carpet by the cot, gently skimming against the cot’s legs before she turns towards the desk.

It reminds Cullen of a prison cell, really. And he wonders if Blackwall did that on purpose.

“You respected him.” She says.

“I did. I think I still do.” Cullen admits, and clasps his wrist behind his back, because betrayal always hurts. He doesn’t think he can ever get used to it. Lavellan nods, slowly, resting her hand on the empty surface of the desk. Nothing at all. “I apologize, Inquisitor.”

“His sins and faults are not yours. You don’t have to.” She replies.

If he had been a little more thorough in his background search, Cullen thinks, investigated his service -

He’s sure Leliana feels the same.

They all probably do.

Cullen suddenly feels ashamed. Ashamed to have failed her. To have allowed this to happen. To hurt her.

“When will he be brought back?” She asks, eyes fixed on her hand on the desk.

“Within the week. Leliana’s finishing up with some loose ends. It has to be as clean and untraceable as possible.”

Lavellan’s lips curve up as she closes her eyes.

“He’ll be here. I think everyone will know.”

“But there will be no evidence, other than him being here.” Cullen swallows when she looks at him. “They can’t do anything if they have no concrete evidence.”

She looks away again, sits down on the cot, fingers pressing down on the flimsy material.

“Why did he do it, Cullen?”

“Do what, Lavellan?”

“Why did he kill all those people? Then run? And then lie?” She asks, “Why did he lie for so long? Then come out and tell the truth now? Why now?”

“Living a lie is hard.” Cullen slowly kneels so he can look her in the eye. “And the guilt of killing is hard enough without that lie. Blackwall – Rainier – is a good man. Underneath all of that he is a good man. I don’t think a bad man would come clean. I think he wanted to do the right thing, to make amends all this time. He just needed a push.”

“A push?”

“You are more than just our leader, Inquisitor. You are our inspiration. You are a call to arms, a calling to serve and to do the right thing. The just thing. I think he felt that. And that’s why he turned himself in. He couldn’t fight at your side and claim to be doing the right thing while lying.”

“Why couldn’t he tell me?” She whispers, “He left us to die. That’s not the right thing.”

“I don’t think he knows that.” Cullen squeezes her shoulder. “That’s why you brought him back, isn’t it?”

“No one else wanted me to bring him back.”

“This is not for anyone else to decide.” Cullen replies. “Whether we agree with you or not, you are our leader, our Inquisitor. And those who are loyal will stand by you. We trust your decisions. We trust you to do the right thing for us.”

“And if I think the right thing for Blackwall is to set him free?”

“Then I will stand with you. And I know that the others will as well. We wouldn’t have chosen you, otherwise.”


	49. Chapter 49

“Where are you going with those?” Cullen asks, pausing in the middle of signing off on the multitude of clipboards that seem to flock to him every other hour, leaning around and over the small gathering of interns, assistants, and various other – for the lack of a better term – gofers that have swarmed him.

Lavellan is carrying a small plastic bag of peaches and is wearing what Varric calls her _dealing with people_ face, and what Bull calls his _shit’s getting real_ face. Cullen just calls it a serious expression, but he’s never been as colorful as either Varric or Bull.

“I am going to eat these in front of Sera.” Lavellan says, eyes narrowing. “To get back at her for all those terrible things she said when she thought I wasn’t listening.”

Cullen isn’t going to touch that with a thirty yard pole. Because ten isn’t enough.

“How is this getting back at her?”

“I will eat them in front of her and she will be upset that she isn’t the one eating them. Sera likes peaches.”

Cullen was there for this conversation and he clears his throat.

“That isn’t what she meant by peaches.”

Lavellan pulls a peach out of the bag, and looks him dead in the eye.

“I _know_.” She says and slowly bites into one.

Cullen can feel the heat slowly scratching its way over his uniform collar. A few of the assembled flock make extremely pitiful noises. Cullen doesn’t blame them. It’s not often you see the Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor of Thedas -

Eat a peach.

“Please don’t.” Cullen says because he has to be the responsible one.

“Not until she begs.” Lavellan intones, “And she _will_ beg.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose as she walks off to find Sera.

A few of the flock make half-steps as if to follow her. Cullen snorts and snaps his fingers.

“You’re here for me, not for _peaches_.” Cullen says, and half regrets it when a dreadful amount of them give him blatant once over's.

-

The stag came back alone.

And that was enough to put Bull’s teeth on edge, because that damn thing would never have let her out its sight, let alone _leave without her_. The stag came back alone and that means trouble. That stag loves her more than anything.

 _It wouldn’t have fucking left her_.

Bull stands up and the stag looks at him and maybe what they say about Dalish and their animals.

The stag breathes out once, a harsh sound, and turns. He doesn’t wait for Bull, he just _goes_.

Bull goes after him. The world has tunneled in onto about three things.

One. His boss is missing and could be in danger. They’re in a city, closer to the industrial side and that means slums. Dangerous people and not so dangerous people, but a lot of dangerous things. She doesn’t know her way around cities too well, she still gets headaches from being around too much noise and reflected light.

Two. Something about point one gets his heart racing in the most unpleasant kind of ways. The unacceptable kind of ways. The kind of ways he’d have submitted himself to re-education for.

Three. Bull wouldn’t let himself get re-educated for this.

He puts those three thoughts away for later, because he can’t deal with that looming realization right now. Not when he’s chasing after a giant stag through rail road tracks, abandoned lots, semi-crowded streets, with the sun rapidly sinking over the horizon.

He’ll come back to them, later, when his boss is safe.

Another word threatens to push itself into his mind. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet.

Later, when the boss is safe under his watch – when she’s probably crawled into his bed and tucked herself into the space he’s learned to leave open just for her on those nights when she feels like sleeping next to him, when he can feel the soft and moist puff of her breath against his skin, and feel the slightest rise and fall of her breathing next to him, the slightest dip of her weight that’s like gravity pulling him closer -

 _Then_.

But now he has to find her, first. Make sure that she’s okay.

-

He opens the door to find her standing there, a dangerous sheen in her eyes, jaw clenched, and hands at her sides.

“Let me get my sword.” Cullen says and Cassandra nods, once, jerky before turning her heel and heading off to the training ground. Because he knows that look. He’s seen that look on his own face. It’s a wordless look that says _I can’t talk right now, but I need to be around someone_. Company that doesn’t touch you. Company that is there without being there.

She’s done so much for him.

Cassandra’s pacing one of the isolated training rooms, sword already drawn.

There’s no time to think about what could’ve upset her, there’s no time to think about what words he could use to try and comfort her or bring her out of that wordless haze. There’s no time for that, not against a Cassandra who’s at that edge.

So they fight, or at least – Cullen does his best not to get killed and Cassandra throws everything she has at him.

Time slips away and Cullen can only focus on Cassandra and fending her off. He gets in a few hits, but only a few.

His arms are sore and sweat starts to pool at the small of his back, uncomfortable and sticky.

Cullen lowers his sword and waits as he catches his breath. Cassandra drops her sword, bending over to breathe.

“Thank you.” She says.

“Of course.” Cullen replies. He doesn’t ask, because she doesn’t. Normally she has a few frighteningly accurate words of wisdom at this point, but he isn’t her and he doesn’t think she expects him to suddenly become a sensitive speaker. “Any time. I’m often told I make a good target.”

Cassandra snorts. “You put up more resistance than a dummy, that’s for certain.”

“I should hope so.” Cullen says, slowly lowering himself to the ground. In hindsight, he should’ve brought some water bottles.

Cassandra straightens up, arms on her hips as she tips her head back and breathes, eyes closing.

“We need to talk.” She says. “And I don’t know how to start.”

“I think you’ve started off quite well.” Cullen says, nervous because this could be where she ends him, this could be where it all goes wrong. “Just keep going. Take a page out of Varric’s book.”

Cassandra breathes out.

“What do you know about the rituals of the Seekers?”


	50. Chapter 50

When she opened the door, she wished and sometimes wishing can get you something but this is not one of those situations.

Lavellan stands in the open doorway and is too afraid to turn on the lights. Because she knows it’s going to be empty. And what’s going to hurt most is that he didn’t take anything with him. He just _left_.

The remains of her arm throb, and she wants to turn on the lights. _He’s gone_.

But she can’t. _He’s still with me_.

So she stands in the open doorway of his office and the light from the hallway makes her shadow a long and tired corpse on the floor.

Her mouth is suddenly dry and her palms suddenly wet.

Turn on the lights, she thinks to herself. Turn on the lights.

I can’t, something deep down inside whispers. I’m afraid.

Lavellan doesn’t remember ever feeling like this. This afraid. She’s never been _immobile_ with her fear. And she – she doesn’t like this. She doesn’t know if she likes the person she’s becoming. She wants to blame it on him, but she can’t do that. It isn’t fair.

Nothing in life is fair and it’s extremely unfair that she hears that in his voice.

She flinches from her own thoughts and out of the doorway.

She has never been made indecisive with fear. She’s never retreated from the things that hurt her. She doesn’t know how to handle this.

He is just a man, Lavellan knows.

He is _my hahren_. My teacher, my kin, my father, my guardian, my elder. Lavellan squeezes her hand around her waist and slowly lowers herself to the floor, staring into the darkness.

As long as she doesn’t turn on the lights she can pretend he might be there. In the dark, staring back at her.

Lavellan crouches there, arm around her middle, stump throbbing in remembered pain -

A secret, tucked in between the folds of her dry lips and the crevices of her teeth. No, not tucked. Tucked is a gentle world. What Lavellan did with this secret wasn’t _tuck_. She jammed it in. Forced it in. Pushed it in until it became something so far down and trapped that she doesn’t think she could get it out even if she tried. It’s there and she knows it’s there and it bothers her, makes her gums bleed, her throat taste like injury, but she can’t take it out.

A secret, jammed so deep into her skin and her blood and her bone that she doesn’t think she will ever let it out.

She crouches there with remembered pain and trapped, hostile secrets.

(A single secret, really.)

And the dark stares back at her and she feels a little more longing than her heart can take.

-

Cullen is the one to sit her down for this, they figure he’s the one who’s had the most experience telling people bad news.

Cullen sits her down, careful as he makes sure to keep eye contact, and he rubs his hands up and down her arms – as if to ward off cold – and his voice is measured and calm when he tells her.

You can pinpoint the moment her heart cracks. You can _feel it_ when it trembles. And the moment it shatters will be imprinted in their minds forever.

“Let her go,” Bull says as he moves away from the door and Cullen lets her go. He lets her go and she flies apart, as if Cullen were holding back the stars from the sky or shrapnel from an explosion, she flies to pieces. Coherent in ways no one there but Dalish and Solas can partially understand.

Words that could be curses, cries to Gods – familiar words like _shem_ and _vhenan_ that ring in their ears, and words that sink deep like _mamae_ and _dadae_. Words that aren’t familiar but somehow strike straight to the core with the way she says them. _Elgar’vhen_.

Lavellan closes her eyes and for a moment everything is still and quiet except for the breathing that comes from her mouth but sounds like it should be coming from a wild and injured animal. Heavy keens that whistle like her lungs have been punctured and can’t hold air. Balloons that can’t inflate anymore.

Blink and you miss it, her face is suddenly sharp and alien, foreign – a different person’s face. Even her tattoos are different.

Then she lets out one long, low, bone-shaking _moan_.

And she flies into movement and brilliant bursts of heartache before flying out the door – a trail of frost and sickly green a comet’s tail behind her.

“Let her have this,” Bull commands before he turns to follow after her.

Cullen knows how to tell people bad news.

Bull knows how to put people back together afterwards.

-

“I found your diary.” Dorian says, “Or, to be more accurate. Cole found your diary and brought it to Lavellan and you know how Lavellan is.”

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose. “Did you read it?”

Dorian makes an affronted noise, “Just what kind of uncouth bastard do you think I am? Of course not.”

Cassandra waits for it.

“I do like the pictures, though. You have a talent for surrealism.”

Dorian hands her the thin journal and Cassandra sighs.

“You are an uncouth bastard.” She says, “Thank you for returning it to me with minimal taunting.”

“Always welcome.” Dorian replies, “You should hide it somewhere better than underneath the mattress. That’s where everyone looks first. That’s why I put a decoy there. It’s rigged. If you take it, it starts leaking the foulest smelling shit you’ve ever encountered. Takes ages to wash off. I know from experience.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to look underneath the mattress. What was Cole even doing there?”

“You’d have to ask Cole, for that.”

“I’d have to _catch_ Cole, for that.”

Dorian flashes her a thumbs up, “Given where you currently are, I say you have expertise on that. You’d better do it soon, though. I told Cole you wouldn’t like him accidentally blabbing about the _feelings_ he got out of holding the thing, and Lavellan’s good about secrets in that weird way of hers, but you might want to make sure with him.”

“Point. Where did you last see him?”

“I haven’t.” Dorian answers, “I don’t mean to be unhelpful, but I haven’t seen him since last week when I tried to give him a haircut. You should ask Varric. It’s like he’s adopted him, like a short, hairy godfather. Of the familial kind, not the mafia kind. Though he could be both.”


	51. Chapter 51

Forgiveness isn’t something that Dorian can imagine easily, himself _forgiving_ , that is. And sometimes he finds it hard to envision that sort of absolute love and understanding that ensures a chance at forgiveness.

Sometimes, Dorian thinks about his parents and he loves them in a way that makes his insides ache, but he can’t even imagine the idea of forgiving them. He’s probably a bad son, but that means they’re probably bad parents. He isn’t too picky on the details of it.

Forgiveness isn’t something Dorian comes naturally to. Dorian is good at holding onto things. He’s _very_ good at it. Dorian will go so far as to say he’s an _expert_ at it.

Lavellan, though.

 _Lavellan_.

There’s something about her, something too good to be true, too good to be _real_ , that lets her _forgive so easily_ that it makes Dorian angry on the principle of it.

She gets hurt instead of mad.

She forgives instead of getting even.

Maybe she’s better than the rest of them, who knows?

But it makes Dorian angry because _she won’t get angry_.

“It’s unfair, really.” Dorian says, tapping his fingers against his upper arm and the anger and the bitterness that’s him and his parents and Lavellan and the entire world just itches underneath this skin.

Blackwall is a silent pillar of martyrdom next to him and Dorian hates how Blackwall is just _taking it_.

Dorian hates the entire situation and he isn’t using that world lightly. He genuinely hates it.

A little, little part of him hates her for this.

Letting this farce go on.

Blackwall is silent, Dorian is hateful, and Lavellan isn’t here right now because she’s with Cole and they’re working on trying to get the security alarm shut off so Dorian and Blackwall can follow in after them.

It’s not that she’s forgiven Blackwall that makes Dorian angry. Dorian thinks that he’ll eventually forgive Blackwall – even though underneath he’ll be bitter and angry and it will _stay with him_ , like a scar that refuses to fade and sometimes twangs with remembered pain.

Dorian’s angry because her first reaction was denial, then _hurt_ , acceptance, and then _forgiveness_. She didn’t make him work for it. She didn’t make him earn it.

She just _gave it to him_.

Dorian can’t _stand that kind of kindness_.

Dorian had to work from the ground up to get to where he is. To be _forgiven_ being from Tevinter and from _wealth_ among their peers. Dorian had to work to be _forgiven_ for being attracted to men and for being a mage.

Blackwall just had to _be honest_ , something Dorian’s been for his whole life.

Dorian grinds his teeth and fire slowly inches its way through his veins, heavy like magma as it reaches the surface of his skin.

Blackwall didn’t earn it and Dorian’s still working for it when he didn’t do anything wrong and it’s all just _unfair_.

He _hurt his best friend and she let him_.

She _forgave him_.

Dorian forces his jaw to unlock before he ruins his teeth and gives himself (another) headache over this.

Blackwall might as well be a piece of rock someone dropped down next to Dorian and drew a face on.

Dorian would prefer the rock. No one would get mad if he set it on fire.

-

“It’s okay.” She whispers, and I do not know how to undo this, I did not know.

Her hands are over mine, and they are warm, mine are cold – I never knew that before. They shake, why?

These knives are for protecting.

Am I what the knives protect against?

I turn the blade inwards.

Her hand stops the blade and I stop the blade because I won’t hurt her, not ever. Will I? I don’t know. I don’t want to. _I don’t want to_.

The Iron Bull says that what we want matters but do I count?

“You’re okay.” She says, and takes the knife from me. Good.

“I didn’t mean to,” I mean to say that, but the words get jumbled from my mind to my body to my mouth to the air to her ears. Maybe she understands anyway because she is warm and smells soft when her skin comes close to mine. Safe.

She’s safe.

For me?

From me?

I don’t know. I don’t _understand_.

Her lips move against my cheeks, she ducks close and her skin is on mine.

“Cole.” She calls to me, voice so close I can taste it from so far, far, far away. If I became Compassion in Earnest Again Would I Hear Her?

 _Yes_.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Now my voice works.

Now the words work.

She always heard.

“I know.” She says, “You cried. You were afraid. It’s okay.”

“You’re going to make this disappear.” I whisper because I know, because she shows me when I can’t help but be drawn to her dreams which feel so good and so right and safe and perfect. She shows me how she takes care of her people.

I am her people, now.

“Yes.” She says, and it is her body in my face and eyes instead of the Templar’s and I didn’t mean to and she knows that but did I mean to?

I wanted the hurting to stop.

Mine or the Templars?

_Ours?_

Her arms around me, body soft against body frightened, pushing and being pushed, away and away.

“Close your eyes, Cole. Close your eyes.” I obey. She moves me. I am moved. Away from the Templar who is no longer a Templar – what have I done?

“No one will know. They won’t take you away, Cole.”

“I told Cassandra to kill me.”

“Not for this, Cole.” She says, “She would understand. She doesn’t need to know. No one needs to know.”

I can feel myself begin to tremble apart again but her arms are soft iron. Varric says that in children’s books spirits are weak to iron.

Anything hurts if you can hit hard enough with it.

“You’re safe, Cole. I’ve got you.” She says, but she doesn’t say it with words. She says it in another way. A way that isn’t words, but I still understand it inside where I am still _me_ and not Cole or Compassion but _me_.

I believe her.


	52. Chapter 52

“Well, what exactly does she consider fancy?”

Vivienne is quietly scandalized as Dorian considers the merits of reaching around Josephine for the bottle of whiskey, versus toughing it out like he’s supposed to.

“This is the _height of fashion_.” Vivienne says, “This is where the _best of the best go_. The string quartet _denied the Empress of Orlais_. Their champagne has _gold flakes in it_.”

“Ah but that considers things like a normal person.” Dorian says as Josephine methodically starts scratching out possible venues and caterers from her already short list. “Consider what _Lavellan_ thinks is fancy.”

“I do not mean to insult our Inquisitor, but she thinks that neon is an acceptable clothing choice.” Josephine closes her eyes and Dorian knows this. He does. He really, _really does_.

How many times has he had to deal with seeing her first thing in the morning because somewhere between him going to sleep and waking up she snuck into his room? How many times has he been in her room and had to almost literally breathe down her neck to get her to tidy things up? _How many times has he had to pick up her underwear after she flings it to the trees in the middle of an impromptu skinny-dipping session?_

Too many. The answer is _too many_.

“I’m going to regret asking, but what does she consider fancy?” Vivienne says, closing her eyes in preparation.

Wise choice.

“Any place that has free crayons.” Dorian answers. “She loves it, honestly.”

Both Josephine and Vivienne make sharp, soft noises as if they were stabbed. Dorian can understand.

“Free crayons.” Vivienne repeats. “The wealth of entire regimes at her disposal and _she wants free crayons_.”

“She likes free things. Most people do.” Dorian feels like he ought to defend his best friend here, but it’s hard to when even he’s mostly baffled by this strange turn of events.

(“Grim’s like that, too.” Bull says as Lavellan sketches an amazing replica of the King of Ferelden’s personal seal next to a maze with an incredibly blunt brown crayon that’s missing its paper wrapping. “He loves the crayons. I don’t know what he does with them, though. I’ve never seen him use them.”

Dorian sighs and continues looking through the menu for something passably healthy that _won’t_ give their Inquisitor cholesterol problems in her future. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lavellan order food for herself.

When handed a menu, she tends to look at it like one would look at something with someone else’s name written on it. Of course, this means that Dorian ends up ordering for both of them and as a result he’s started being _conscious_ of what he orders in ways that scream of _paternal instincts_. Bull has to deal with this every day and that’s terrifying.

Dorian can’t believe he’s responsible for more than himself and he wants to kick her in the shin for making him do this. But he loves her and she trusts him and that makes him go goopy on the inside so he just orders her pancakes.

Breakfast is, to her, an acceptable food choice for any time of day.)

-

“She’s too _young_.” Leliana hisses because she knows all about youth and leadership. She knows what it can do to a person. She knows what it takes, what it takes and never ever gives back.

“She’s old enough by common laws to drink, drive, smoke, go to war, have children, and buy lyrium.” Cassandra replies, steady and this is why they always had to have Justinia go between them.

“Old enough to fight, yes, but not old enough to _lead everyone else into war with her_.” Leliana says, “She’s twenty one. Barely. If she’s even right about that. It’s not as if the Dalish keep birth certificates.”

“I would think she knows how old she is.” Cassandra snaps, temper leaking into her words.

“She’s too young.” Leliana repeats, “Regardless of whether that’s twenty one or not, just look at her, Cassandra. This girl cannot lead us into war, lead the _world_ into war. It’s fine if we are to use her as an idol, an image, a figure head. But to actually _put her into power?_ She was raised to lead her family out of danger, not to lead an army _into_ it.”

“She can do this.” Cassandra insists, “She _has_ been doing this. Since that first day, since she sealed that first rift. And whether you like it or not, everyone sees her as our leader. I doubt that even half of our soldiers would continue to stay with us if someone else were announced as the Inquisition’s official head. They listen to her, they are here _for her_. Can you tell me that the Iron Bull would raise his sword for someone who isn’t her? That Solas would he half as forthcoming with a stranger? _They aren’t here for us._ They’re here for _her_. And to be completely honest, at this point, there isn’t anyone else I would rather have leading us.”

Leliana grinds her teeth.

“But what about _her_?”

“What _about_ her?”

“Is this what she wants?” Leliana asks, because no one ever remembers to before hand.

Fate placed the Warden and the Champion in the centers of their stories.

Lavellan can still escape.

Lavellan is not yet Inquisitor.

That seems to catch Cassandra off guard.

“She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know. Once she chooses this, it’s over. She’s never going to be herself again, it will never be _Lavellan. She will always be Inquisitor_. Even if the Inquisition dismantles later on, if we choose someone else. She will be the first of her kind in generations. She will be the _only_ one of her kind. Ever. Every eye in the world will be focused on her in ways she can’t possibly comprehend. This is a role that she can’t possibly be ready for.”

“And you think someone else out there is?”

“I think that someone older than her will be able to see what they’re walking into. This girl – Lavellan – she just wants to do good, help people. Commendable, naive, and understandable. The Inquisitor doesn’t always get to be any of those things, Cassandra.”

Both of them fall silent at the thoughts of the original Inquisition.

Peace by force, solidarity through elimination and extermination.

A closed fist.

Lavellan, and everything she is, is nothing if not an open palm.

“It’s already too late.” Cassandra says, “No matter what either of us think, it’s too late.”


	53. Chapter 53

In hindsight, Lavellan thinks that the pen was not worth stealing. It’s a nice pen, and she’s certain that it writes beautifully in the right hands. Josephine or Varric would like this pen. Varric is very picky about pens.

Really, Lavellan is pretty sure that all you need is your finger and some kind of colored liquid substance, but she’s certain if she says that to his face he’d be very upset, or at least shocked.

Apparently he isn’t as young as he used to be – and she thinks that’s a confusing saying, no one is ever as young as they used to be, that’s how time works, doesn’t it? Or at least how most people _perceive_ time. Time isn’t real and you’d think that more people would know that but Bull says to keep that quiet because humans are delicate things and he’s not wrong about this sort of thing, not usually, so she doesn’t say anything about any of that though she does find the entire preoccupation with timepieces silly. Dorian has a watch that he sometimes wears, although it makes him sad to wear it, that cost over _two thousand_ human currency and that’s _incredible_. Dorian says she has enough money in her account to buy one much better than his but that’s still silly, she got one for free from the drive-thru place that also had the crayons, why would she buy one? – so his heart can’t take another shock.

Lavellan is worried about his heart health so she doesn’t say anything about pens, either.

Still, stealing this pen wasn’t worth anything because now she’s being chased by loud things with bright flashing lights and it’s a very unpleasant experience all around.

Why did she steal the pen?

“You didn’t mean to.” Cole says from just behind her and she’d be startled if she had the breath for it. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.” She glances over her shoulder and Cole’s wearing Blackwall’s Warden hat, today. Lavellan is fairly certain that Blackwall thought he lost that hat a week ago. He went out and bought a new one.

“He wanted an excuse to get a nicer one.” Cole answers her speculation with a confirmation, “He’s embarassed to say he wants to look respectable.”

“Blackwall is plenty respectable.” Lavellan vaults over a planter filled with fake plants- what’s the point?

“Vivienne would say aesthetics.” Cole does a neat little flip next to her and Lavellan is tempted to make it a race. “Someone else put the pen in your bag when you weren’t looking. It’s a fancy pen. That’s real gold.”

“What’s the point?” Lavellan is endlessly baffled by the things humans put gold on. _Why?_ What does it _do_?

“She put it in your bag to see what would happen.” Cole says, “Bull’s dealing with her now.”

“Sera? I didn’t know Sera came along.”

“No, not Sera. Someone else.” Cole flickers around his edges. Sera wouldn’t do this, Lavellan is pretty sure Sera wouldn’t want her arrested. Sera is always going on about her reputation.

Sometimes she thinks that Sera and Vivienne have a lot more in common than they’d like to admit.

“Where is Bull?”

“Right and up into the sky.” Cole says and Lavellan moves into a forward flip. Cole is just where she needs him to be to give her a boost to get her way up onto one of the hanging things from the ceiling and swing her way to the second floor of the shopping area. “You always get it right.”

“You always make it very clear.” Lavellan says, “I put the pen back, why are they still chasing me?”

“It isn’t about the pen, any longer. Go. I’ll slash their tires. They shouldn’t be driving those _here_. People are afraid. They just want this to stop. Most of them know you.”

“Need help?”

“No. Thank you.” Cole is a brief and shimmering glance at her elbow, “I can do this. Find Bull. He’s good at keeping you safe. You don’t always know what to look out for.”

-

The dream is fading. And she’s chasing it because sometimes dreams are better than what’s in front of you.

There’s shame in that. But she isn’t.

She shouldn’t be.

Bull watches her face and she’s waking up. She doesn’t want to. Bull watches, Bull knows. He understands.

She wakes up with a gasp, eyes flying open and hand stiff and clutching the sheets.

The word-name-title-position- _person_ rolls off his lips.

“Kadan.”

Her hair is spread out underneath her head and she stares up, seeing but not wanting to see, at the ceiling. Bull doesn’t turn on the light.

No one here needs it.

Cole is quiet as he presses against her side, the lines of his body pressing and gently urging the sharp exclamation points of hers to loosen, relax.

“Breathe,” Bull orders and her mouth slowly unlocks, Bull presses his thumb to the soft skin on the side of her throat. “No. Not like that.”

Her throat trembles underneath his thumb as she fights to not gasp like a drowning woman.

Cole rests his head on her chest and his hand covers hers, fingers sliding in between.

Lavellan’s eyes are on a fixed point beyond them. Bull sometimes wonders what she dreams of. Cole knows.

Bull doesn’t ask, Cole doesn’t tell.

Her eyes fall closed as she breathes.

“Good.”

Bull sits back a little and Lavellan rolls into his lap, curling her body around his torso, face pressed against the side of his stomach – her skin is cool with sweat. She wasn’t crying this time, though. Bull prefers it when she is.

She’s responsive when she’s crying.

Cole follows after her and there’s room for them both.

Bull circles them both with his arms and hums, low and nearly soundless – through the bones.

Lavellan relaxes and Cole fiddles with her hair.

“Why did I wake up?” She asks.

“Because it was a dream.” Bull curves over her, over them both and Cole waits to be dismissed. He won’t be. Cole should know by now that he’s welcome. “Kadan, it was a dream.”

“But why did it have to be a dream? Why couldn’t I be the me of the dream, and why couldn’t I enter that reality?”

“Because that reality isn’t meant for you.” Bull answers. Philosophy he can do.

“I wanted it.”

“That matters,” He reaffirms, “I’m sorry.”

Lavellan rubs her face against his skin. “It was like home. But better. Like this, but complete.”

Cole makes a soft sound of distress. Bull wordlessly holds out a hand and Cole tentatively rests his cheek against Bull’s palm, settled.

These kids.

Lavellan falls back to sleep a few minutes later and Cole fades out of Bull’s view after that. He’s around, though. Cole hasn’t let her out of his sight in weeks. He’s not sure if it’s because she needs it or because Cole does.

Bull runs a hand down his face.

These kids are going to be the goddamned end of him.


	54. Chapter 54

Once, a long, long, _long_ time ago, Lavellan found something amazing in the woods past an abandoned train stop that her clan had been using for the winter. It’s a secret, though. Lavellan hasn’t spoken about it to anyone, she’s never told anyone.

A long time ago, when she was very small – Lavellan found a statue of the Dread Wolf. It was beautiful. She didn’t tell because something about it felt special. Private. This was _her_ statue, her _secret_ , now.

A place to go when the other children were too loud and too rough, when the hahren were being unfair, when she wanted to be away.

The statue was, of course, worn with time and weather, but it looked very regal. Quiet and stoic, it seemed to watch over its little patch of woods – just like all the stories say they do.

Sometimes she would climb up and sit between the Dread Wolf’s paws, and pretend she was a wolf pup. Did the Dread Wolf have children?

Did any of the Gods who weren’t Mythal or Elgar’nan have children?

She thinks they must have, and maybe they’re hiding in secret?

Lavellan remembers this as she walks through the Graves and her heart aches for a time she never knew.

She was born too late.

She reaches out, blindly, and Cole’s hand is already in hers.

“You are born for you.” Cole says, and the string around his wrists itches against her skin. His hand is at once soft like a baby’s, and rough like straw. “Not too late, not too early. Right on time.”

She missed this, though.

The silence of the Graves is yawning, and threatens to swallow her up in its undisturbed solemnity. Cole rests his head on her shoulder, the bill of his cap grazing at her jaw.

She turns and her eyes search out their hahren and then she remembers that he went with Blackwall to get more water for the camp.

Cole carries firewood under his other arm.

Her hands are empty except for glittering remains of the past. She doesn’t even hold a future.

“You hold everything.” Cole’s sneakers scuff against the forest floor and Lavellan really ought to convince him into boots instead. “They’re loud and angry.”

“Not all boots are.”

Cole lets her hand go and goes over to a log to examine a particularly large growth of deep mushrooms.

Lavellan turns her back to him to look farther into the Graves. The urge to change shapes is strong. She hasn’t felt it in a long time – to leave her body and become one with sky and land again. She’s been content with her body – hand and all – for most of this.

But the Graves call to other parts of her. Parts with horns and wings, parts with claws and fangs. Parts without fingers.

“No one would mind.” Cole says as she turns her face towards the sky and the sun through leaves. “We love you whether you have four legs or none at all.”

“This is for me.” Lavellan stretches her fingers and pushes down the urge to change into claws.

“Like the wolf from so long ago.”

“Yes. Exactly like the wolf.”

-

He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but he doesn’t know how. It’s been so long since he’s loved something that it’s hard to understand.

Cole watches, Cole listens, Cole learns.

He loves her but he doesn’t know how to say it because the last time he loved someone they hurt him.

(Dorian, the Iron Bull, Solas, Varric -

_She wants to tell her how much she loves her but she doesn’t know how -_

Sera, Josephine, Cassandra –)

But they don’t realize that she already knows. She doesn’t need them to say it because sometimes saying it hurts, makes it too real. She knows that. Sometimes it’s easier to keep the words inside, where you can take them back if someone hurts you. Secrets. She understands because sometimes if you love something you keep it inside, where it’s safe. No one can hurt you if you never let it out.

So you keep the words inside because you’re scared – the last time you let the words out you were hurt by them.

You’re afraid.

She knows. So she lets them stay silent.

They say it without saying it, because love like that bleeds through no matter what you do. It shimmers underneath the skin, a layer of insulating love that makes you _radiate, radiant, radical_.

Lavellan holds a finger up to her lips and her eyes are smiling and Cole is quiet and he mimics the action to show he understands, too.

She gently drapes a blanket over Dorian’s shoulders, and Dorian lets out a soft snore, cheek on his arm. Her eyes are moons of laughter and she gently takes the pen from his hand and caps, it, then slides his laptop away and out of danger of falling, closing it and placing the pen on top.

Next -

Cole follows because she isn’t healing hurts, not exactly, but she’s smoothing over rough spots that he doesn’t know how to touch.

It’s like honey in wine, but all the time.

Next she makes Solas’ bed because he doesn’t always do it and she knows that he likes to sleep in a made bed. He forgets sometimes, and then feels off about it when he goes to sleep later. He won’t sleep properly if it wasn’t made.

Sometimes they think it’s me who does it, but it usually isn’t. She knows how to do it just right. The way they like it.

She’s studied them just as much as they’ve studied her.

They want to tell her how much they love her but they can’t get the words out. It doesn’t matter, she knows anyway.

-

There isn’t something right about the window.

Bull’s not sure if it’s a trick of light, maybe some new type of window treatment, or maybe just because he’s not used to the place yet. But there’s something not quite right about the window.

He leans back, and the chair creaks in protest. There are a few nervous glances in his direction but that’s nothing he isn’t used to.

He glances at Blackwall and Blackwall’s a normal poker face – shame he can’t use it properly during Diamondback. He might have noticed, but he’s not sure how the Wardens train their people on the whole observation thing. More guerrilla tactics and combat stuff, probably.

The kid is around here, somewhere, and there’s no telling what Cole does and doesn’t know about anything. Lavellan’s been staring into the souls of the people they’re trying to negotiate a supply deal with and it’s making them anxious.

He’s pretty sure she’s just thinking about what kind of fruit she wants on her frozen yogurt, later. She’s addicted to the stuff. And the combinations she’s been trying give Bull stomach cramps just thinking about them.

Lavellan’s hand flickers, bright even despite the glove she’s taken to wearing in public places, and there’s a collective flinch around the room. Then nervous glances and nervous laughter.

Lots of nerves going around here.

Bull considers getting up and pretending to need to use the toilet – maybe he’ll get another glance at the window. Seriously, something’s bugging him about it.

Lavellan’s not quite getting impatient, but he can tell that she’s getting tired of listening to all this chit-chat. She could easily sit through another three hours of this bullshit, but on the way here they saw a frozen yogurt place having its grand opening and a free gift while supplies last.

She’s a sucker for free shit and she’s currently a sucker for frozen yogurt.

No one had to explain what _while supplies last_ means.

Bull waits.

“Before we continue,” Lavellan says just as there’s a brief pause in talking, “I would like for someone to explain why there’s lyrium in the windows, and templar anti-magic on the door and window frames.”

Well then.

Bull lets himself smile.

Blackwall’s poker face moves from blank to quietly looming.

Lavellan smiles and opens her hands, “We’re all adults here. Let’s just get along so we can _get going_.”

“While supplies last.” Cole whispers from everywhere, nowhere.

“Exactly.” Lavellan nods.

Out of context, it seems like a very ominous thing to say.

Bull lets himself laugh a little, the person sitting across from him pushes his chair away from the table and Bull can see the sweat on his face from here.

He’s so glad he took this job.


	55. Chapter 55

“I don’t know how you do it, how you _care_.” Varric admits to her, once, while she sits back on her palms and watches the evening sky of the Hinterlands change from an orange gold to a deep navy-purple. He swears he’s never been around so much green or seen so many stars. Light pollution. He can’t decide if he misses it or not.

“What do you mean by that?” She asks, palm pressed firmly against the ground. Another sort of light pollution.

“How you just – _care_. About everyone. All the time. I mean, I’m an asshole. I know I’m an asshole. I think a lot of people know I’m an asshole. I can’t really think about the good of _everyone ever_. It’s too much for me. I just stick to this small little group of other assholes, of which Hawke is kind of the alpha asshole.”

“A pack of assholes?” Lavellan laughs, and Varric would too, except it kind of really is that accurate. He’s got no other words to describe exactly how he came to know his friends.

Dicks think alike, apparently.

“It’s just – no  matter where you go or who you talk to, you instantly want to do right by them. Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But _everyone_ , even the people who say shit about you. Even the ones who actively try to fuck you over. And people you haven’t even met, too. That’s just blowing my little dwarf _mind_.”

Lavellan laughs again and makes an exploding sound effect. She stretches her legs out, bare toes wiggling a little. It’s kind of nice out here. With the grass.

It’s probably because he knows there’s civilization near. Down the mountains near. Given that said civilization is a small town of maybe about three hundred – that’s like two apartment buildings, seriously -  and rural to the point of _eating what they grow,_ like this _ye olden times_.

“Do you want to know a secret, Varric?” Lavellan rolls her head on her shoulders to look at him, eyes catching the light of the fire in ways that make Varric think of Kirkwall’s alienage. He doesn’t have much of a frame of reference for this kind of elves around a campfire, thing.

“What?”

“I don’t.” She shrugs, “I don’t actually _care_ about all of them. Not really. I mean, I ought to be nice to them, I think. Because that’s polite and shems are less likely to hurt you if you’re polite. But I don’t actually care about _them_.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“That’s just it. I care about _you_.” Lavellan says it so damned easily. “I care about _you_. So that means I care about _your_ friends. And I care about the Iron Bull, so I care about _his_ friends. I care about Cassandra, so I care about _her_ friends. That’s how it works. I’m a First. I don’t know if Merrill ever explained to you what exactly that meant, but it involves a certain mindset. When you become Keeper you have to start caring. And sometimes that’s hard. Sometimes you can’t get along very well with other Keepers, or members of your own clan. So what you do is you think of it like a web. You’re the center of the web. And if you care about the area around the center, your care will spread to the other threads. I care about you, so I care about Merrill and Isabela and Fenris and your pack of assholes.”

“Doesn’t explain why you can be so nice to people you’ve never met.”

“Ah, but that’s also because I care about you.” Lavellan lies back, arms crossing behind her head. “Do you remember when I saved those templars from being attacked a few days ago?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I don’t care much for templars. I think you could guess why.”

“I have a few theories, yeah.”

“But I saved them anyway because of Cullen and Cassandra.”

“Meaning?”

“I care about them. I care about what they care about. I also care about what they think of me. Cullen and Cassandra care about the templars and what happens to them. I don’t, but they do. So I helped them. And by helping them Cullen and Cassandra will think the better of me. It’s all very, very selfish, you know.”

She turns her head and laughs.

“I don’t know why you all think I’m so nice.”

Varric shakes his head, “We all want people to think the better of us. Pretty sure that’s just how people work. So you just take that method and run with it?”

She crosses her ankles.

“It takes practice, but yes. I run with it.”

-

It’s the trip of a lifetime, going to Halamshiral.

The place of her people.

And yet -

It’s nothing like what she expected. There is nothing of her people anywhere. Everything is so – so _Orlesian_. So _shemlen_.

Lavellan crouches on top of a low building and she thinks that Leliana or Cullen’s people will be finding her soon. She just wanted to – to look away. To see this from a different vantage point. Maybe she would see something she couldn’t see from the ground, from the lowest level.

You can see so much from a rooftop. It changes perspective.

Lavellan crouches and everything smells. Everything hurts. Too bright, too loud, too smelly, too much.

Even their green parts are wrong. Artificial, fake, constructed, _not right_. Contained.

This is where her people once rose. This is where they were cut down.

She squeezes her knees.

Her people _died here_.

It hurts.

Her people continue to die here.

(She remembers the news. She remembers hearing about the fire. _So much death_. All of the Dalish mourned on that day. _All of them_.

More blood on the ground of Halamshiral.

Don’t the humans know how precious it is?)

“You can’t be up here.” Bull says and she knew that he’d get to her first.

He’s good to her like that.

(Doesn’t he know how perfect he is?)

“I want to go back.”

“It’s a short trip. Just getting you used to the place before the Winter Ball.”

“I want to go back _now_.”

She feels sick and dizzy and out of place and anxious all at once. It’s not a good feeling.

She turns around and Bull is leaning against an air conditioning unit, arms crossed and looking straight at her. He’s got his serious face on, the one he uses when he commands, when he leads, when he disciplines.

Her insides churn, hot and bitter. So much precious blood.

She wipes her sweating palms on her jeans and stands up. The world spins a little and she breathes out through her mouth.

The sound of an animal echoes in her chest, trying to get out.

“I don’t like it here.” She says. Leliana and Josephine and Vivienne _love_ this place. For them, she wanted to, too.

But she can’t.

Everywhere she looks is a stark reminder of _what was once, can never be again_.

Bull nods. “That’s fine.”

“I want to go.”

“That’s also fine.”

“I don’t feel well, the Iron Bull.”

Bull stops nodding. “We can fix that. Let’s go.”

Lavellan goes to his side, and takes one last look at the skyline.

“The horizon is the most beautiful thing about this place.” She says.

“Why’s that?” Bull always wants to know her _why’s_ and _when’s_ and _who’s_. That’s why he’s so perfect, to her at least.

“Because it’s proof that this place ends.” She answers, slowly curling a finger into one of his belt loops as they walk towards the fire escape she used to get up here after jumping onto it from the next building over.

“Everything ends, boss.”


	56. Chapter 56

As a child, Cullen had always been told that dolls were for girls and he had been somewhat confused as to the distinction between _doll_ and _figurine_. Mostly when he got older, seeing as how his sisters tended to use both in their games regardless of what kind of color and pictures were on the packaging.

In Cullen’s mind, he still can’t quite figure out the difference between them – there isn’t one, at least he doesn’t think there’s one, but he’s not going to get into this with anyone, he really doesn’t want to – but he’s fairly certain that this specific doll was meant for Lavellan in that _it has her  name on it_ , and it has a – admittedly _poor_  – replication of her tattoos on its face.

The doll, otherwise, looks completely human and that’s probably why Lavellan is asking Vivienne if this counts as a death threat.

“How did that make it past our screening?” Cullen asks and the intern shrugs, blows a bright, neon blue bubble, pops it, and snaps his gum.

Cullen swears that the interns had more respect for him and everyone else _before_ Lavellan started hanging around them on a regular basis.

“Why do its feet look like that?” Lavellan asks, and Cullen is only here for this because he has the worst luck in the entire Inquisition.

 _Why is he always here for these things_?

“So the shoes can fit.” Vivienne says, “These are terribly made. You should sue.”

“It _is_ a death threat.”

“It’s an attack on your reputation. You can afford better quality than this garbage.” Vivienne plucks at the doll’s hair with her fingers, disdain almost literally rolling off of her in palpable waves of frost, when the hair falls out with little resistance. “Pathetic, really. I’ve seen Tevinter effigies in better shape than this.”

Lavellan nervously pulls at her own hair.

“It’s not a voodoo doll.” Cullen assures her, “You aren’t cursed.”

“Are you _certain_?” Lavellan asks.

“I’m no expert, but I’m fairly certain that voodoo magic isn’t made with rip-off dress up dolls.” Cullen checks his watch. “Inquisitor, we really do have to go, now. The cars are waiting.”

“But what if the doll really is cursed? Like in the movie Dorian and Sera showed me?”

“That’s just a movie.”

“ _But it said it was based on a true story_.”

“They just say that.” Vivienne tosses the doll into the garbage can, “They don’t actually mean it. It’s meant to add to the _atmosphere_ of the show.”

Lavellan still looks troubled.

“It isn’t cursed.” Cullen touches her shoulder.

“But, Cullen.” Lavellan shifts from foot to foot, voice dropping into a whisper that makes him and Vivienne have to lean in a little. “ _I have a glowing hand that can summon demons.”_

Cullen and Vivienne share a look, because _point taken_.

“I’ll ask some templars to watch the trash can.”

“I shall prepare some tests. Now go on, you shouldn’t keep the dowager waiting, my dear.”

-

The car squealed to a stop, and Lavellan threw her arms up to shield her eyes -

Confusion, so bright, her chest hurts, ears ringing, _still being chased_ -

\- and the window rolled down.

“You look like you could use a ride.”

Lavellan squints, and laughs -

“ _Dorian!”_

She jumps over the car and slides in through the open window.

“Will you ever learn to get into a car the proper way, I wonder?” Dorian muses, “I’d say buckle up, but really your life has enough problems without worrying about car safety.”

Lavellan laughs, “You came back!”

“I said I was going to _visit_ Tevinter, not that I’d be there forever. I’d go _mad_ if I did. There’s no _you_. And you’d probably die without me. Look at this, a month since you’ve defeated Corypheus and already you’re being chased through the streets with a  mob after your head. What did you do?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” Lavellan says, “Skinner’s around here somewhere. I lost her.”

“Your ability to slip past both guards and pursuers continues to grow and astound. I thought the Chargers left?”

“They’re on _loan_.” Lavellan says, taking the still steaming cup of – she sips it – hot chocolate.

“For all you know that’s for _me_.”

“It’s not sweet enough to be for you.” Lavellan protests, “And even if it was, you’d let me have some anyway. I almost died because you left.”

“I hate it when you use my words and my affection against me.” Dorian sighs.

“And the Chargers are on _loan_. I let other people borrow them sometimes.”

“Just like how you let other people borrow me?”

“I don’t let anyone borrow you, Dorian. I let other people distract you so that you realize how wonderful it is at Skyhold so you come back appreciating me all the more. I bought you a library. Has anyone else done that?”

“You’ve been spending more time with Varric’s friends, I can tell.”

“Varric invites me to his house.”

“I’d invite you, but you’d end up starting the revolution before I could even get my dual citizenship paperwork sorted and then there’d be no point in me being in Tevinter at all. I can’t have you doing my job for me.”

“Sitting and looking pretty is your job.”

“If you weren’t sitting in _my car_ , with newly cleaned  _white leather seats_ , holding a cup of hot chocolate, I’d smack you upside the head. Since when were you so mouthy?”

“Cullen and Vivienne miss you.” Lavellan says, reaching around Dorian’s seat to rummage through the bags of food she knows he has. Because he wouldn’t come rescue her without bringing her something to eat.

Dorian is her best friend and this is why.

“So they’ve been teaching you to mouth off at me the second I come back? We really need to start facetiming more. Give me time to teach you how to talk back at _them_. See how _they_ like it. And don’t touch the macarons. Those are for Josephine, because _apparently Josephine is the only one who hasn’t been going behind my back_.”


	57. Chapter 57

The more that people refuse to obey, the more chaos there is. The more chaos – the more blindspots as people hurry to cover their asses.

So when you want to make an opening, you have a lot of people stir up as much trouble as possible in as many places as possible. Doesn’t have to be anything big, it can be a public disturbance here, a minor case of shoplifting, a domestic disturbance.

Then you mix in some arson, a little bit of car theft. Battery and assault, armed robbery.

Riots. Car chases. Hostage situations.

Things get crazy, then. Things get _confusing_.

Things get dangerous.

 _Advantageous_.

“I don’t think I like this.” Lavellan says and Bull figured. Sera’s busy coordinating her Jennies.

“Most of it isn’t us.” Bull points out, “It’s people piggy-backing off of Sera’s people.”

“I still don’t like it.” Lavellan frowns.

“It got your your opening,” Vivienne says, “And one cannot complain about that. Ready to go, my dear?”

Lavellan frowns and steps up to the edge and nods. “I guess so.”

Bull squeezes her shoulder. He can’t say he actually likes it when she goes solo, but his little boss is good at what she does and he can’t argue with that, either.

Sera gives her the thumbs up and Lavellan puts on her game face and drops straight down into darkness.

“She’s got fifteen minutes.” Sera says, “Unless someone else comes along to fuck things up with security.”

“Fifteen is plenty.” Vivienne turns her gaze towards the skies, “We have other things to deal with.”

“Hey, Sera?”

“What?”

“How far do you think you’d go if I threw you?”

“Not as far as you’re thinking.”

“And if I got the target lower?” Vivienne asks.

Bull and Sera turn to her.

“Ice weights a lot more than you’d think.” Vivienne hums. “Certainly enough to bring a certain mobile assault helicopter low enough for an arrow or dozen.”

Sera knocks her bow and pulls out some tonics from her jacket pocket.

“Get me up there and let’s get the arrows doing the talking. It looks bad if she can get things done by herself and we can’t even knock down a helicopter between the three of us, yeah? Teamwork.”

-

That summer before war broke out seemed to last forever in her mind’s eye. Lavellan can’t even remember when that summer began, though she can remember how it ended.

It was a good summer. It stretched like a cat in the sun.

Her clan had found an old wooden cabin in the woods, far enough from the shemlen freeways and the closest city to not to be found out, but close enough that they could watch for any signs of trouble.

There was game and there were wild berries and trees that could be Sylvans and made her think of child-hood games.

She and Mahanon played, acting like children, a lot that summer. A lot of them acted like children that summer. Something about the season seemed to invite that kind of childish playfulness. As if the world knew what the future held in store for them, and was trying to give them the rest of their lifetime’s worth of happiness before it all ended.

And then her Keeper called her into the section of the old cabin the clan had sectioned off for the Keeper and the masters.

She thought that they were finally free from the shemlen wars and her heart shivered a little when they told her about what was happening, far away from the gaze of their summer hazed eyes.

And they gave her a choice.

Her bones ached when she said yes because she wanted to say no. She could have said no. She was precious enough that they could not afford to make her unwilling. Firsts, Seconds, and Thirds are easy enough to come by. Plenty of clans would be willing to give one of their own fourths or fifths. Some even go far enough to _tens_. If magic among the people is not as common as grass or weeds, then perhaps it is a four leaf clover in a field.

Twin souls were never common.

A twin soul with _magic_ was even rarer.

She is a single grain of growth in a forest of ash, a speck of gold in a waterfall, the single white feather in a flock of ravens.

They couldn’t afford to lose her.

But she said yes even though Mahanon would want to go. Better to lose the part of the soul without the magic, she is certain everyone else would have thought.

She said yes, though her soul said no, and she disappeared without telling anyone.

Mahanon would have followed.

The clan needs at least one of them. Prestige and tradition, preservation and pragmatism.

She goes and her heart does not follow.

Lavellan can remember the last night before she left, slipping out at dawn. Mahanon knew something was wrong.

A face cannot hide from its own self.

She would not say.

They have slept like children, always, tangled and curled up into each other like maybe that way their soul could be one piece through all that skin and mingled breathing.

She took a lock of his hair and left a lock of hers. She took his sleeping face and left the rapidly cooling warmth her body vacated.

It still hurts, more than anything. More than her hand, more than all this death, more than all the eyes of the world turned to her.

Sometimes she wakes up, thinking its that summer, and she’s confused as to why Mahanon isn’t next to her, still sleeping – he always slept in during summer because he was almost never asleep in the winter – and then her heart hurts because it remembers what she left behind for the shems to burn and slaughter.

In these private moments of hers when she wakes up her eyes sting with tears that  make her think of ash in the lungs, and her muscles ache with remembered pain.

She misses her clan, she misses that summer – she misses sharing a bed with four and five others and Mahanon and she misses waking up surrounded in the breathing of halla and dog and pig and brother and sister and Mahanon. She misses the smell and feel of bodies all around her, guarding each other in dreams.

It’s easier when she sleeps with Bull or Dorian or Solas or Sera or Josephine or when Cole pretends to sleep next to her. It’s easier to wake up because her heart transitions slowly from memory to scars.

It’s harder to hide how much she’s crying all the time, but it’s easier to transition.

She curls up underneath the blankets in the place that is her home even though home has been turned to dust and ash, and she squeezes the hurt down, down, down, with the rest of the secrets, a hot ball of wet longing.


	58. Chapter 58

“Lavellan,” Cullen reports, ever dutiful in the face of disaster, incredulity, and humiliation, “Is currently running her own private investigation which may or may not involve half of all mercenaries signed onto the Inquisition.”

“About?” Josephine asks, ever regretful, professional, and resigned in the face of _Lavellan_.

“Someone might have poisoned a very old dog.” Cassandra answers, shooting a glare at Cullen, “She refuses to believe that it was simply old age.”

“She’s having some of our people do an autopsy as we speak.” Leliana laughs, “Cullen, did you tell her about the dog?”

“I told her, in passing, that I enjoyed watching a very old dog take his walk around the perimeter every morning.” Cullen glares at her, “I did _not_ tell her that I thought someone _murdered the dog.”_

“You had to open your big mouth.” Cassandra mutters, “Now we can’t get her to focus on anything else.”

“You mean to tell me that half of the mercenaries and independent contractors we’ve hired are currently being paid to _look for a hypothetical dog killer_?”

“The other half are just doing it for free.” Leliana adds on because she always has to _add things on_.

Cullen checks his phone.

“And those are the autopsy results.” Leliana says.

“One day we are going to discuss exactly why and how you know the contents of every call, message, and email I receive before I even receive them.”

Leliana waves her hand at him, “Today is not that day, so, what are the results?”

“Poison.” Cullen says and Cassandra groans, tipping her chair back and spinning it in a half-hearted circle. “Do you think she would accept _life_ as a poison, in an extremely figurative and metaphorical way?”

Josephine has pulled out her prayer beads and started praying with her eyes closed and hands clasped in front of her face.

“On the up side, she hasn’t been this motivated to do anything since before Adamant.” Leliana points out and everyone in the room collectively works very hard not to flinch, grimace, recoil, or otherwise react to the statement. “We could consider this progress.”

“And everyone calls me the optimist.” Cassandra deadpans.

Cullen and Josephine exchange amused and chagrined looks.

-

He takes a deep breath, and without turning at her – hard to resist, magnetism and shit – he tells her the simple truth, “I’m not sure who you mean when you call for me, anymore.”

Her eyes are hot on his skin, like sun lamps and maybe it’s that maybe-dragon’s-blood in him but he wants to pool in it. Just close his eyes, surrender, and soak it in.

Dangerous stuff, his saarebas boss. Dangerous stuff. The stuff that gives the Qun nightmares.

Her fingers slowly brush against his, her five to his three and two halves.

Crawling vines onto hard rock.

Creepers.

“Whenever I call you, I am calling _you_.” She says. Like it’s that simple.

“But who are you calling?” He asks without turning to her because he knows he’s a fucking sucker. “The Iron Bull was an identity, a mask, a persona, a cover. I’m Hissrad. I’m – I’m a number. I am the Qun. Except I’m not that anymore, either. So I don’t know who you’re calling. The Iron Bull wasn’t real.”

Her fingers slide over and cover his like lace, falling between and over and around. So much light shining through.

“Your hand is real.” She says, “I can touch it. It’s warm. It’s rough. It’s larger than my own. It feels good when it touches me, it feels safe. Your blood is real, it’s red and it’s hot when it gets on my skin. It’s fast and frightening when I can’t get it to stop. Your voice is real. It tells me real things all the time.”

“Those are _parts_ , boss.”

“What is the whole if not parts?”

He turns and looks because you can’t resist gravity. You can try, but you just end up looking like a damned fool. He may be one, but he isn’t the other.

And she just looks at him like she looks at everyone, except not really because she _doesn’t_ look at Sera or Vivienne or Varric like that. She doesn’t look at Rylen or Sutherland or Skinner like that.

She doesn’t look at Dorian or Cassandra like that.

This is the look she saves for _him_.

Open and warm and trusting and so fucking _alright_ with everything that it throws him off kilter every time.

There’s a word that’s been beating its fists and head and feet against his jaw for months, now. It’s not yet time to let it out, but maybe it’s time for him to consider why it’s chosen now of all times to put up such a fight to be spoken.

“Part of what, though?” Because he’s always been _told_ who to be, and now there’s no one except her to tell him and he doesn’t know what to do with this uncertainty. He knows her. She would never tell him _who_ to be. What to be.

She would just tell him to _be_.

But what does _he_ want to be? What does _he_ need to be?

“Yesterday you helped Cole round up some kittens and some lambs.” He blinks and her face is soft, pliant, peaceful. “You carried each lamb and kitten in your arms and made them quiet and then you put them down where it was safe, where they wouldn’t wander off and get lost again. The week before that, you helped me take care of the babies in the nursery.”

She tilts her head.

“You taught me how to fight and you tell people when to give Cole space when he needs time to settle. You talk with Josephine about the places you’ve been because you know she wants to travel and you give her all sorts of tips and help her practice using other languages. You spar with Cullen when he starts getting tense and needs someone _good_ to fight with, who isn’t in charge of him or too much identical to him like Cassandra.”

“That’s basic stuff.” He says, “Basic cover. I did that so you guys would trust me.”

“You could have.” Lavellan nods. “I don’t think that’s why, though. I think you just did it because you could. Because you felt you needed or wanted to. I don’t think you did it with the Qun in mind. Even if you did, I think you thought that up later. Just like how Cassandra isn’t always acting with the Chantry in mind, or how Sera isn’t always acting with the Jennies in mind, and like how Dorian doesn’t always act with Tevinter in mind. Like how I don’t always act with the Dalish or the Inquisition in  mind. Sometimes I just do things. Because it’s _me_. The little parts that help make me aren’t always the parts that make me do things.”

She leans against his arm, cheek soft against his skin. Warm through layers of iron and scars.

“The Iron Bull, it’s hard to remake your face you don’t have to start from scratch. I think that you’ve been remaking yourself for a while, now. You’re just getting to the finishing touches. Personally, I’m excited to see who you become, next.”

The Iron Bull slowly closes his fingers, feeling her skin against his, and shifts to face her a little more.

“Whatever I am, or becoming, I’m still yours.”


	59. Chapter 59

Bull’s dozing in the back seat, the sound of rain white noise that draws him in and out of it as Lavellan drives along the highway. They figure that if she fucks up and crashes, Bull would be the one most likely to survive. To be honest, she isn’t a bad driver. Better than Cassandra _and_ Blackwall, combined he figures.

Between the fact that elves have amazing kinetic vision, her own personal observation skills, her sharp reflexes, and her coordination, she’s a better driver than most people.

Also, no one would fuck with them in this car.

This truck eats other trucks for appetizers and shits them out in pieces. No one would fuck with this car.

Bull’s dozing in the back seat, and it’s nice to just relax and not do anything and Lavellan’s brand of quiet has always been soothing and somehow _full_ without being oppressive.

He’s about to drift off for real when she starts crying.

No warning, not even a little waver in the car’s speed or direction, all the warning he gets is a small choked off whimper and then she’s crying. Soft, hitching little sounds and sniffles and Bull is instantly awake even though he isn’t sitting upright and leaning over the console to look at her.

He’s quiet and she’s quietly crying and the rain is quietly falling.

“Hey.”

She shakes her head and keeps driving. Bull lets her be.

Lavellan is aware. She’s aware of herself and others in ways that would get her scooped up for Ben-Hassrath work before you could say _Qun_. Lavellan knows herself and what she needs more than he does. And he trusts her on that. She is one of the few people on a very short list that Bull can count with the one hand with the missing fingers that Bull thinks has a better grasp on their identity than most people should have a right to.

Some things about yourself are meant to stay hidden for good reason.

It’s one of those days where it’s rainy in patches, and Bull can see the sunlight in the distance, breaking through clumps of vaguely gray clouds.

Lavellan stops crying for a while, at least not audibly, then she starts again, stops again.

Bull lets her be.

“I’m so unsteady.” Lavellan says, voice remarkably calm and even. “I feel so unbalanced, the Iron Bull.”

He can hear her swallow, Bull loosely reaches around and slides his arm over her chest, lightly, carefully. She doesn’t shrug him off.

“If you – if you all had met him, if you knew him, you would be surprised to know that he was always the brighter of the two of us. He was always the steadier one, the settled one, the put together one. I just fly apart, all the time. For no reason. I hate it. And I can never seem to put myself back together properly. I just fall apart again. I can’t find my load bearing stone, the Iron Bull. I’ve lost it. And all the other pieces that make up my foundations. I always forget to put one back and then I fly apart all over again.”

“Mahanon.” Bull says the name carefully, it feels like trying to speak around glass bombs.

“Mahanon.” She whispers with the kind of longing Bull doesn’t think he could take to know.

“I’m not him.” Bull says.

“No.” Infinite longing, infinite disappointment.

“But I can probably hold some of that up for you.” Bull squeezes his arm, just a little, and lets go. “We all fly apart.”

“Once, maybe twice, three times in a life time.” She says, “Not all the time. Not for nothing. Not for everything.”

Bull tucks that away, and considers swinging by the spymaster’s for a talk.

“I might have one eye, but I’m pretty good at finding those pieces, if you ever need help.”

“Okay.” She says, whispers, voice fading. “Okay.”

-

Dorian isn’t sure if he wants to go out on such an auspicious night, but he’s been kicked out of the Inquisitor’s room while Vivienne takes over healing and he feels like he’s going to go insane if he has to be in the same ten miles as her and _not be able to see her_.

Dorian is tired and he’s cranky and he’s hungry and he’s frustrated.

All of the above are terrible things to happen at once to a mage.

So Dorian does what anyone would do.

He goes to bother Solas, because Solas is always tired, cranky, and frustrated – and he might be hungry right now because how can _anyone even drink water_ when Lavellan is sick, infected, and beat to hell and back in her room?

Dorian and Solas might never be friends, at best colleagues, at worst _arch rivals_ , but they have this in common, at least.

Dorian kicks Solas’ study door open and is only mildly gratified to see the man startle out of a doze, wincing when his back cracks and fumbling a little with the paper that got stuck to his face.

“Hungry?” Dorian asks. Solas examines him with tired and half-asleep eyes, and Dorian probably doesn’t look any better. Solas nods and slowly rises to his feet, swaying a little. Hunger or exhaustion, who knows?

They make their way to the cafeteria, but nothing looks appetizing. Dorian’s stomach roils.

Judging by the sour expression on Solas’ face, he doesn’t fancy anything here, either.

Dorian breathes, gets a try and shoves it into Solas’ chest, and gets one for himself.

“We’re never ourselves when we’re hungry.” Dorian says to Solas’ annoyed and confused expression, “I mean look at us. I haven’t said a single word about your – what is that? Checkered? Checkered slacks.”

“You just did.” Solas sighs, and gets some vegetable soup. Smart choice, Dorian can’t stomach anything heavy.

Magical exhaustion mixed with the normal kind of exhaustion is a terror on the digestive system.

Dorian isn’t in the mood for celery in water, though, so he gets some chowder.

“Brave.” Solas murmurs as he moves on to picking some salad.

“Fortune favors the bold.” Dorian quips, bypassing the salad in favor of the getting some bread.

Will their stomachs be able to handle fruit, he wonders. Or will both of them just end up vomiting it up within twenty minutes?

Dorian gets them both canned pears, ignoring Solas’ raised eyebrow and takes his try from him -

“I got the desert, you get the drinks. There, aren’t we getting along wonderfully? Lavellan will be ever so delighted.”

“Nowhere near the other archivists.” Solas says as Dorian goes to find a seat in the mostly empty canteen. “The last time gave me a headache.”

“Nothing wrong with a little scholarly debate.”

“Is that what they call it these days?”

“If you get me something without caffeine in it, I’m going to set something you love on fire. Maybe those pants. Dance, monkey, dance.”

As if their stomachs could handle anything strong.

If it keeps them awake to fight each other to take the next shift at Lavellan’s side, so be it.

“I’ll ask them to add something special to yours. Red pepper flakes. Carrot juice.” Solas muses. “Pumpkin spice.”

“Don’t mess with me, man.” Dorian says, “I have two trays and I’m not afraid to use them.”


	60. Chapter 60

“I’m fairly certain that at this point Lavellan is more interested in the catering than the actual agenda of our meetings.” Leliana watches Lavellan pick through wax-paper, squinting her eyes at labels and cautiously sniffing and prodding the sandwiches to try and discern what’s inside of them. “Inquisitor, avoid the ones that look orange. You don’t like that kind of bread.”

“Thank you, Leliana.” Lavellan waves her hand at them, “When does the meeting start?”

“Should I tell her, or should you?” Bull asks Cullen who’s just steadily making his way through his salad like this is a normal day. It is normal. For them, at least. A normal status meeting. “It’s already started, boss. Recording is on and everything.”

Vivienne hums, “Could you be a darling and get me some of that pasta salad while you’re up? Thank you, my dear.”

“Which one? There are three.” Lavellan asks, befuddled by the sheer amount of choices before her. “Could I mix them all together?”

“Just one, please.” Vivienne says, “The one on your left, your other left, thank you.”

“Inquisitor, we’re going to review the minutes from our last meeting.” Josephine says, “Do you want me to approve them for you?”

“Bull.” Lavellan waves her hand and continues to sort through the wax-paper wrapped sandwiches.

“She likes _my_ reading voice better than _yours_.” Bull says to Cassandra who rolls her eyes over picking out all the jalapenos from her sandwich.

“Most people do.” Cassandra says, and stabs one of Bull’s apple slices with her fork.

“Get that one, the one you were just testing the firmness of. The one before that one.” Leliana leans her chair back as Lavellan angles her body so that Leliana can see which one she’s touching. “That one. You’re going to like that one. Sweet, a little tart, crunchy. Hand me the one you put down right before that one, would you? I’m going to eat that one directly in front of Dorian.”

“Why can’t Dorian come to these meetings?”

“Because these meetings are for people with actual legitimate purpose.” Vivienne answers, “Josephine is your ambassador, the Iron Bull is one of the lead mercenaries under your employ, Cassandra is one of the founders of the Inquisition, Cullen is your Commander, so on and so forth. I, of course, am here as a representative of both the Circle of Magi and the Orlesian court.”

“Are you allowed to represent two things at once?”

“Bull was Qun _and_ mercenaries, slash spies. So that’s three things at once.” Cullen points out. “Down to two, now.”

“You’d be surprised how much less stressful that is.” Bull says, “Considering I share spy duties with your official spy master.”

Lavellan bounces around the table, sliding a a sandwich in front of Leliana, a paper wrapped cookie in front of Josephine, a small styrofoam bowl of pasta in front of Vivienne, and hops onto Bull’s lap and starts unwrapping her own sandwich.

“Bless her. I love her.” Leliana says as she tucks the sandwich into her bag.

Bull lowers his voice and starts whispering the meeting minutes into her ear as she nods along, reaching over Bull’s arm to slowly start stealing strawberries off of Cullen’s plate.

“Is she aware that you’re allergic to strawberries?” Leliana leans over to whisper to him.

“Probably.” Cullen shrugs, “I only get them for her, anyway. If there’s no fruit for her to steal she starts in on the other things that I actually eat.”

“Clever, clever. I’m going to have to start using that trick. Normally I just don’t sit next to her.”

“No wonder she thinks you’re mad at her.”

-

“You’re getting the Inquisitor of Thedas to do _what_.” Blackwall turns around and gives Dorian a _look_.

“Pass her GED.”

Blackwall looks at Dorian like Dorian’s messing around. Joke’s on him. Dorian doesn’t mess around when it comes to education.

“How do you think it looks that the most powerful entity in Thedas is led by someone who’s never gone to school in their life? Think about this from a perspective of someone who hasn’t ever heard her say a single word.”

Blackwall seems to think that over for a few moments before nodding in agreement. That’s what Dorian thought. Lavellan is incredibly intelligent, don’t get him wrong. In fact, she’s probably a genius and terrifyingly good at looking like a complete airhead. Or maybe she is one and somehow it all works out with her incredible luck to be genius.

But the point is they need that down on paper because reputation is key.

“And how is that going?”

Dorian hits play on a recording he’s saved on his phone, from when he was sitting with her through a practice test.

“I am very small compared to many of the people around me, although that average height is skewed by some Qunari mercenaries of the Qunari race of people,” Lavellan whispers, “And I am very tired. I have a hole in my hand that is capable of tearing a hole in reality. I am in charge of a military and business organization that has to fight dragons and demons and crazy shemlen who aren’t exactly shemlen anymore. I am also an elf and a mage. I would like to repeat that I am very tired. And I am very small. I’m sorry that I can’t explain to you about why school uniforms are important in shemlen schools. I, myself, have never been to a shemlen school. Unless it was to take it back from Tevinter extremists. I do not know the answer and I don’t want to waste your time or this paper or this ink writing about something I do not know about. Please let me pass this exam.”

Blackwall looks a little red from trying not to laugh.

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“She _is_ very small.” Blackwall coughs, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“I love her.” Dorian sighs. “She’s amazing and I love her. Do you know who’s grading this, by the way? Vivienne. Because she did a few rounds of teaching in the Circle. I don’t know if she was broken on the inside or what. She didn’t say anything at all. I wish I had it on video, but I was busy recording Lavellan whispering to herself about how _mitochondria is the power house of the cell_.”


	61. Chapter 61

“And where are the terror twins today?”

“Terror twins?” Solas repeats.

“The dynamic duo, the creative couple, the poetic pair. I could go on.” Varrric helps himself to one of the chairs by the lab tables, turning to look at one of Dorian’s contained tessellation experiments. He taps the glass and the spell tessellation flickers to life for a moment before fading back to normal.

“He really could.” Dorian says as he attempts to swipe some of Solas’ spare slides. Solas quickly puts a barrier down. “Overreacting, much?”

“We are each allotted a certain amount of slides per pay period. It is not my fault that my own topic of studies causes administration to give me a higher allotment, nor is it my fault that you can’t seem to manage your own supplies properly and drop your slides every two seconds.”

“ _Rude_.” Dorian sniffs. “I drop them because the aforementioned terror twins keep _popping up_ without warning, despite the fact that I have warned _them_ about the consequences of it.”

“Maybe if you were a little more observant of your surroundings, rather than so caught up with your own, internal affairs.”

“Says _you_ , mister sandman.” Dorian snorts. “Where does Vivienne keep her slides?”

“In her personal lab room.” Solas replies. “And you wonder why she was able to get permission to secure an entire lab for herself.”

“What’s keeping you from doing the same?” Varric asks.

Solas throws a _look_ at Dorian.

“Lack of resources and first come, first serve policy.” Solas answers, “Skyhold’s architecture and terrain allow for only a few rooms to be outfitted as labs and Vivienne submitted her request _ten minutes_ before I could.”

“You three shared a lab for all of two days.”

Dorian gives _Varric_ a look.

“That’s two days longer than three mages from three different schools with three different projects should _ever_ have had to share a lab.”

“I get you.” Varric raises his hands in surrender. “Anyway, either of you see the dreaming duplet?”

“Nice.” Dorian nods. “And no.”

“No, neither Cole nor Lavellan have been here today, that I am aware of.” Solas shakes his head. “Nor have I heard or sensed either of them in the area.”

“Well. Shit.” Varric runs a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

“I haven’t dropped any slides today.”

“Yet.”

Dorian glares at the side of Solas’ head as Solas nudges his slides further away from Dorian’s half of the lab room.

“Is there any particular urgency, Varric?”

“No. Not really. Maybe a little. Sort of. Hey – you remember that golden statue that she thought looked kind of neat? And how we kind of found something iffy about it?”

“I’m going to regret saying yes.”

“I already regret thinking it.”

“Ever heard of a nugalope?”

-

“You,” She whispers, hands gentle on my face, “You, and you alone I will never be hurt by. Do you understand?”

Compassion alone, she can never fault.

Pride and Hope and Joy and Honor and Justice and Respect and all the others she can learn to distrust and hate and guard against.

Compassion, she will always trust.

“You, I will never punish. Never hurt.”

A single tear like every single hurt in the world, condensed into a liquid star. I catch it on my finger tip. It tastes like all of its unborn brothers and sisters.

“Only you.” Her voice cracks. “Only you, I could never leave behind.”

I touch her face, keeper of faces and secrets and a sky full of hurt-filled stars. I touch the thumbs of my body to the lines of sorrow in ink on her body, her cheeks, the corners of her eyes as she looks down on me, my head in her lap.

“Why are you crying?” I ask her this because I do not understand, I understand everything else but the why.

She curls over me and another star falls, slow and hot and trembling like the ice crystals on the upper edges of the windows that first winter we came to Skyhold-home-hearth, trembling like the individual music box sounds.

“I will never betray you.” I say because it is true.

Compassion cannot betray.

I cannot betray her.

She sobs a broken sound and it makes a broken sound inside my body.

I catch the stars on this body’s thumbs.

“You alone, I will always forgive.” She says.

“Who hurt you?”

“You alone, I will always embrace.”

“Who has wronged you?”

“You alone, I will always accept.”

“Who has denied you?”

“You alone, Cole. Remember that for me. Remember that for me.”

Ah. I see, now.

“I’m just Compassion. I can’t stop you from being you. It is you to trust. It is you to welcome. That isn’t your fault.”

The stars are crying.

I am sorry.

-

“We’re going to be late.” Josphine fidgets, half-way to unbuckling her seatbelt and getting back out of the car.

Cassandra stops her by throwing her arm across Josephine’s chest.

“What exactly did you say to her?”

“We have to leave in fifteen minutes or we’ll be late.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Cassandra laughs, not unkindly. “Ambassador Montilyet, _this_ is how you call the Inquisitor if you are truly pressed for time.”

Cassandra lowers her window, leans her head out and bellows -

“Inquisitor! There’s a free gift at the breakfast diner Josephine has us scheduled to eat at. But only while supplies last. We should be on the highway in ten minutes to make it.”

Josephine startles and turns around to stare out the back window when she hears a faint and high pitched scream.

“That’s either the deer or her. I’m not sure.” Cassandra says. “But she’ll be here.”

“But there isn’t a free gift.” Josephine blinks, baffled. “We’re stopping for breakfast?”

“Open the glove compartment.” Cassandra starts the car up.

Josephine opens the compartment and finds a bag from a dollar store. She unties the bag and looks inside, and finds a mish-mash of different things from different dollar stores and gift shops.

“It’s not lying. Supplies _are_ limited. And it is a free gift.”

 


	62. Chapter 62

“I have had breakfast four times today.” Lavellan says, handing Cullen a cup of coffee and an overly sugared pastry. It could be a croissant, it could be a donut. Cullen isn’t sure. She licks some of the powdered sugar off her fingers. “When is lunch coming? I like breakfast. But I would like some variety, please. Thank you.”

“You’ll have to ask Josephine and Vivienne about that, I’m afraid. Though I did see someone setting up brunch in one of our conference rooms.”

“How many conference rooms do we _have_?” Lavellan boggles. “Why do we have more than one conference room?”

“War room. Status room. Smaller meeting room. Conference call room. Training rooms one through five.” Cullen ticks off on his fingers.

“How come we don’t have more _bedroom_ s _?_ Or storage rooms?”

“Sera’s room is both at once. Should you be getting ready for brunch? Do you need to change clothes?”

Lavellan chews her bottom lip.

“I don’t think there _is_ a brunch on my schedule. Maybe it’s someone else’s brunch.”

Cullen cannot imagine someone holding brunch in the Inquisitor’s castle without either telling or inviting the Inquisitor to at least drop by for some strawberries or cantaloupe slices.

“That’s the Cullen fanclub brunch.” Rylen says, “And I’ve come to get you for it. Because it’s either you or me and, frankly ser, the commanding officer must always put those who follow him ahead of his own wants and needs.”

“Traitor. I should have left you at Starkhaven.” Cullen mutters.

“Well, if you’re having brunch.” Lavellan takes the pastry and coffee from him and hands them to Rylen. “Do you know when I get to attend my first lunch? I do like breakfast, but I’m on my fourth one already.”

“Maybe one of those breakfasts is your lunch.” Rylen says.

Lavellan makes a soft _oh_ sound. “You’re wonderful. Cullen am I allowed to give merit raises? Is that part of my job or yours? Josephine’s?”

“Technically, since you are the CEO of the Inquisition, _yes_.”

“Rylen you are getting a fifty percent increase in whatever we pay you.”

“You _may_ want to confer with Josephine on that.” Cullen is quick to tag on. “Proper channels and all that.”

Rylen nudges Cullen’s leg with his own.

“Thank you, your worship. In the mean time, I need to borrow your Commander. He’s wanted. _Very badly_ it seems.”

Cullen makes a face.

“I should have stationed you in _Kirkwall_.”

Lavellan waves. “If they sell the stickers can one of you buy me some? They’re nice. I like to put them on my favorite reports.”

-

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That.”

“What?”

“That thing you are holding, Inquisitor.”

“Oh. _This_.”

“Yes. That.”

Lavellan’s eyes flicker from side to side before she shrugs. “Nothing.”

Cassandra may be fooled by the likes of Varric, but Lavellan is an entirely different story. Cassandra still doesn’t know how she lost over two hundred to Lavellan at Wicked Grace, but Lavellan is a poor liar when she isn’t in a life threatening situation. Or otherwise dangerous and incredibly high tension occasion.

Cassandra waits.

Lavellan will crack.

“May I pass?”

“What are you holding?”

Lavellan cracks.

“Don’t tell Varric that I have his manuscript, but Cole took it because Varric hasn’t been working on it and Cole felt his editor’s stress and the manuscript felt sad and I told Cole not to take it but Cole took it and was going to show it to Cullen because Cullen reads a lot so he thought that maybe Cullen could do something and I just got it back and Cullen didn’t see it but no one is supposed to see it, please let me return it?”

“Which series is it?”

“Not _Swords and Shields_?”

“ _Hard in Hightown_?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A new one?”

“Maybe? I haven’t read it, either.”

“Alright.” Cassandra waves her through. “Get Varric working on the next _Swords and Shields_ when you can. He has a bad habit of leaving cliff-hangers.”

-

Lavellan is woken up by a series of wet, loud, sloppy kisses and she wakes up laughing, because she instantly knows -

“Cole, you were supposed to _tell_ me when the puppies were ready to be taken out!”

“They wanted to see you.” Cole says, and she reaches out and over and her fingers brush against the back of his head. “They couldn’t wait.”

“Someone is going to be very cross, tomorrow, when I am too sleepy to do anything.” Lavellan says, sitting up and laughing at the lapful of puppies Cole has brought her. She switches on the light at her bedside. Cole has two more puppies in his own lap, lightly gnawing on his long, skinny fingers.

“No one is ever really cross at you.” Cole strokes down one of the puppies’ backs with his finger, tapping at the wagging tail. “It’s very hard. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been cross before.”

“That’s because you’re Cole.” Lavellan laughs, lifting squirming puppies off of her thighs to push her blankets down. “Oh, hello, my beautiful friends. How are you all?”

“I was going to bring them to Cullen and Blackwall, but I wanted to show you, first.” Cole says. “They are very excited. There are many new things. Dogs have such nice feelings. I wish everyone could feel as nicely as dogs, do. Things would hurt so much less. The hurts are stronger, but the hurts are harder to come by.”

“I wish everyone were dogs.” Lavellan touches the tip of her finger to the tip of a puppy’s nose, laughs when it looks confused and flops over onto its side and starts squirming. “Dogs are perfect and lovely and all the good things in the world.”

“That’s not true. The dogs don’t think that. The world is nothing but good things.”

“Shhh, Cole. Let me have this. You’re all such good boys and girls and unknown genders.”

“Does that mean me, also?”

“Of course that means you, also, Cole. Don’t be silly.”

 


	63. Chapter 63

Blackwall finds Lavellan curled up underneath a horse blanket, head pillowed on her bent arm, and hay sticking out every which direction in her hair.

She snuffles, fingers curling a little before she rolls over and flings an arm into a patch of sunlight from the roof that they have yet to fix. Blackwall is pretty sure that the stable roof will get fixed before the Commander’s does. He hasn’t  yet decided if that’s a mark of character about the Commander of the Inquisition or not.

Blackwall turns away from her to look at the long and incredible line of semi-wild deer that she’s convinced into allowing her to ride into battle on. Or just around some of the trails outside of Skyhold’s walls.

They all stare back at him. Unblinking and unmoving. Just standing there, the light shining through the narrow windows above them filtering in through their antlers in a strange and oddly primal sort of pattern.

Eerie beasts.

Blackwall turns his back on them and is faced with her _dracoliscs_ , her _undead unicorn_ , and her battle nugs.

The horses are, understandably, kept in a separate facility.

There’s probably a reason why they let Blackwall sleep in this stable.

Blackwall starts getting ready to feed the beasts and he can’t help but shake his head at the thick rubber gloves, boots, apron, and large plastic face protector they have on the wall for the dracoliscs.

What’s wrong with normal horses?

Normal horses are _fine_.

They don’t spit acid at you. They don’t want to laze around all day, eating. They aren’t incredibly judgmental, usually. At least, not in Blackwall’s experience.

Though he’s pretty sure that one of the new forders is going to be transferred to this stable with the way its been acting up. Trust Lavellan, and the Inquisition, to recruit animals with as much attitude as the rest of its members.

Blackwall would go so far as to say some of the _cars_ have personalities.

Maybe he’s just been listening to the Inquisitor talk for too long. She has a very _persuasive_ way of speaking if you aren’t careful.

Blackwall has yet to decide if _that_ is a mark of character or not.

-

He talks like a wolf, he acts like a wolf. He is a wolf.

Lavellan decides this, and then accepts it very quickly.

She has grown up with many wolves in her life. Wolves are good friends, good teachers. She has been kept safe by many wolves. She has learned from many wolves.

She wants to learn from _this_ wolf.

A wolf without a clan. A wolf without a den.

Curious.

“I don’t particularly think he appreciates your brand of attention.” Varric says as Lavellan watches Solas from across the square. Solas is ignoring her.

“That’s fine.” Lavellan says. “I don’t need him to appreciate me. I just want him to teach me.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a strange one?”

“Not recently, within hearing range, that I am aware of. Are you going to tell me?”

“No. As long as you know.”

Lavellan smiles. “Everyone is a little strange, Varric. How else could we get the world to be as beautiful as it is?”

Varric shakes his head. “Never go into writing, kid. You’d put me out of business.”

“I wouldn’t do it on purpose.”

“That’s probably the worst part.”

-

Solas reaches over and with infinite amount of patience extracts Lavellan’s wrist from her mouth.

“Stop.” He turns a page in the book Josephine has been kind enough to lend him from her personal library.

Lavellan rubs at her wrist, and he wonders if this is the transference she gets from knowing the art of changing shapes, or if this is just her. Does she favor any of the canine shapes? He wonders if it is inappropriate to ask her.

After all, she has not shown that card to the Inquisition.

It’s there, it lingers to those who are educated in the old ways. Dalish he knows, must know for certain. One does not need to be actively changing their bodies in order to show all the little ways in which they have been shapes that they are not currently in, now.

Her favored forms are easy to tell from the way she holds herself.

Lavellan has yet to break her habit of sitting like a bird, or of lying down like a deer. Even the way she sits and stands is like a doe. She _listens_ like a doe. He’s caught her eyes shifting on few rare occasions.

(Her sight, though, and her manner of tracking movement is _wolf._ Is it petty to feel flattered?)

But she has always had an idle habit of biting at her wrist bone.

Lavellan wrinkles her nose and fidgets, twisting around – pup – in her seat to stare at the fish tank behind them – tracking –, before turning around to face him.

“How long have we been here?”

“Not long enough, apparently,” Solas muses, making a mental note to ask Josephine about the exact translation of this phrase when they get back. “Patience. What is the root of the word patience in common?”

“To suffer.” Lavellan answers. “ _Patior_. If this is a place of healing, why aren’t they a little more urgent in their responses?”

“It is not an emergency room.”

“But shouldn’t anyone feeling unwell deserve to be seen as soon as possible?”

“In theory, yes, but as you know, what should be in theory does not always work out in practice.”

Lavellan sighs, then turns her head fast enough that it makes Solas’ neck muscles twinge in sympathy.

“Hahren, I hear an ice cream truck.”

Solas takes a moment to focus his senses and listen -

“Yes. I hear it, as well. No, you may not have any. There’s ice cream at our base.”

“But what if they have different kinds?”

“You have an appointment.”

“I don’t think they’ll call me any time soon. I can just run and get it.”

“You are not chasing down a moving vehicle for ice cream that you can eat when we get back to our current residence. If you leave, your appointment is invalid.”

Solas puts a hand on her leg and Lavellan frowns. Solas turns another page.

“No.”

“ _Fine_.” Lavellan mumbles something under her breath. “I could catch the van and be back before they even notice I’m gone.”

“I don’t doubt you.” Solas says, pressing down on her leg until she relaxes. “Do you even have change for the van?”

“Probably. What currency do they use here? Plastic?”


	64. Chapter 64

It’s gotten to the point where Lavellan – for all that she’s rather recently learned to read and write fluently and legibly – is excellent at writing letters of goodbye, condolences, and apologies.

She has it down to an art form. Cullen, to this day, still struggles with writing any sort of letter. His sister bemoans the fact that he has a cell phone, email address, and an entire legion of mail carriers at his fingertips and he still can’t send a _hello, I’m not dead yet_ her way once every few years.

Cullen struggles most with finding the line between sincerity and professionalism. Realistically, he doesn’t know _every single soldier_ under his command. He knows a lot of them, if not by name, by face and small mannerisms. He personally oversees introductions and the first few rounds of training and examinations.

That’s one thing they couldn’t get him to pass on to someone else. He maybe swamped with work but he won’t give that up.

Cullen needs to see the faces of the people he commands. He must.

It helps him not to forget. It helps him keep himself in line. He must never forget _who he serves_ and the consequences of his actions.

Cullen struggles with the cumbersome words in his own head, how to put them on paper, and how to make the letters seem real. Everything he writes seems to sound fake and scripted.

Lavellan can spend hours, _days_ even, on a single letter of goodbye. And they sound _good_. Better than that, they sound _meaningful_. She makes it real.

If Cullen struggles with knowing the soldiers, drivers, pilots, technicians, strategists, operators, and so on under his command he can’t even imagine being the Inquisitor. And she does it so well.

Put her in the middle of Skyhold’s bridge and she could greet almost everyone going in and out by name, strike up a conversation, and instantly know them. Their backgrounds, their faces and names, their temperaments, their histories, their dreams, their hurts, their wishes, their desires.

Honestly – they lucked out with her.

He has no idea how she does it.

Sometimes Cullen just has to make notes in his files. He wants to know his soldiers, the people he commands. It’s just hard. And sometimes – sometimes it just makes it all that much harder. Knowing who you’re sending into danger.

It’s so much responsibility. To know them is to care, and to care is to want to avoid risk.

Lavellan has risk and care in both hands and she juggles it all amazingly well. Cullen wonders if this is more Keeper training at work. There’s a lot that doesn’t transfer over – from being the leader of a small group of related people hiding from the world and its incredibly real dangers, and being the leader of a large multi-national, multi-ethnic organization that challenges the world and its dangers into a one-on-one death-match. But maybe this is one of those few that do.

-

“The Gods are dead, and you owe me a title, a house and a tour of Kirkwall.”

Varric can’t actually believe his eyes because the Inquisitor – Lavellan. Lavellan is standing in the middle of his room. So much for fucking security. He should talk to Aveline, but he also doesn’t want Aveline to rip his head from his shoulders from sheer frustration and stress.

Lavellan stands there like she’s always been there, which – she’s always been like that. But she’s been -

She’s been _gone_.

“Yeah.” Varric croaks, voice rough and chest tight, “As long as you aren’t going to be collecting on how much I owe you from those last two rounds of Wicked Grace, I think I can manage to pay that up.”

Lavellan doesn’t smile but her mouth does something that could be a wolf’s – a dragon’s – a _snake’s_ laugh.

Varric holds his arms open. “Missed you, kid. Without you around, who’s going to get the Seeker off my back?”

Lavellan hugs him back and it is at once the best and worst hug Varric’s ever had. He feels so much relief in it, but it feels empty on her end. Like she’s been hollowed out and nothing’s reaching past, nothing’s filling it. She’s lost more than an arm. He knew this.

“I’m sure that Cassandra’s had enough of Kirkwall for one lifetime.” Lavellan replies, tilting her head. It used to be like a bird, and sometimes like something with more teeth than that. Now it just looks like teeth.

Varric looks at her, just _looks_ at her. And she looks good. _Ish_.

Considering that the last time he saw her she looked like a dead woman they pulled out of the earth?

She looks better.

“I thought – we thought you.” Varric won’t say it because he’s superstitious like that. So he just lets the words hang in the air. Suspended by his disbelief.

“Death is something I have never truly been afraid of, Varric.” She smiles, like a wolf. “Death has been good to me.”

Varric isn’t going to touch that. It isn’t his place and he wouldn’t know how to, even if it was.

“Any plans, now that you aren’t dead?” Varric asks, instead. He can do humor.

Lavellan’s eyes smile like cats. The big kind. The really big kind. More teeth.

“Well. The only thing I’m good at is killing gods. How would you put that down on a resume, Varric? I never learned how to write one. But in the mean time, I was hoping for a warm bath. They don’t really have those where I was. I think that being among the shemlen has spoiled me, Varric. Do you think I’ve been spoiled?”

“I think you could be a little more spoiled, honestly.” Varric replies. “Let’s get you a bath and then something to eat. You want something to drink? I bet you’ve got some crazy stories to tell me. You always do.”

Lavellan laughs. Wolves and big cats.

Man, Varric thinks, Solas is _fucked_.

-


	65. Chapter 65

It was just for one night.

One night was all it took for his resolve to waver.

His fingers ghost around hers, and he can feel his own energy braided so tightly with her own – his own mana strangling her channels. It must hurt terribly. He must be hurting her terribly.

But he does not stop this farce, does he?

He runs a finger in a circle in the air above her palm. Ambient flickers of the fade swirl – smoke – in the wake of his movements. He wonders if she will figure out the reason why neither Dorian nor Vivienne or even Dalish are capable of stemming the Anchor’s flow, when he could always force it to behave.

Not for long.

It is, at its core, his own magic. He can only stay away from his truest self for so long. As the keeper of faces must eventually return to using their own shape, so too, must the wolf shed the skin of a man.

A voice that is hers, Mythals, and hers, da’fen’s, says -

 _Or perhaps it is time for the man to lay down the skin of the wolf_.

Both were good with words. Silver of tongue, and golden of heart.

Gold is a soft metal. How easily it is molded, crushed, taken, and torn asunder by the right kind of hot-wrath.

There is a reason why Elgar’nan was Mythal’s downfall.

Sometimes he wonders if she still loves him. If she ever did love him.

How could she be so foolish?

Solas thinks of how many different sorts of foolish he must be, to come here. He left. But he is weak, and his da’len does not know how weak she is, how weak her Inquisition is. Riddled with spies.

Her circle remains her own, but with every organization that grows it will always become weak.

She sleeps, unaware and blissful in her ignorance. And Solas, as ever, is the one who must remain awake and see the darkness for what it is.

For all that the times have tried to vanquish darkness by creating their cities of lights – streetlights, headlights, flood lights, fireworks, holiday lights – the darkness is all the more darker. A futile exercise.

Or perhaps he’s being a touch too poetic. He’s always been that _and_ dramatic, though he will argue that all of them had a flair for drama in their days. How else would you convince an entire populace that you were a god walking the Earth?

The arrogance astounds him, to this day.

Lavellan rolls in her sleep, arms spread on either side to embrace the sky that she just recently closed.

He wanted to – he wanted to say goodbye. Her dreams have been calling to him. Lost and lonely cries. A wolf’s pup, a quivering calf, a softly crying chick. And it speaks to a very, very arrogant side of him – a side he cannot deny. When one is too proud, too head-strong, too powerful, one begins to think that they are bound to answer such cries. Who else can if you are the one with all the power?

He has yet to break that mindset after all these years.

So he came and he thought – he hasn’t actually thought that far ahead.

So he sits at her side, hand hovering over her own, as his own mana slowly strangles the mana channels and nerves and blood vessels and kills her slowly. Racing faster and faster towards that golden heart. Another sort of poisoning.

And he looks around her room and finds faint traces of the destruction he has brought to her life. The ghost of a memory, imprinted so strongly into the stone of Skyhold – the place where he once closed the sky, the place where his da’fen closed it again, so many parallels – of sobbing and crying. Lost. Adrift. Alone.

The touch of Dorian’s mana, still recent in the air. Flowers that he knows that Sera picked, in a plain vase he distinctly remembers Merrill sending her from Kirkwall. The floor of her room is oddly barren of its normal piles.

He isn’t sure what that is meant to mean. That someone – not him – has been tidying up for her, that she hasn’t been making messes to tidy up, or that she’s changed. Drastically.

Solas startles and turns, and finds that his hand has lowered and his fingers lightly rest over the Anchor. Her hand closes around his fingers. A child’s fist.

Da’fen.

Forgive me, he says in the old and true ways, I regret the pain you face. But I do not regret my own actions to cause it.

Halam’shivanas.

 _Coward_ , Mythal-Lavellan=mother-daughter whisper into his ear. A phantom sensation that makes him pull his hand away from hers, hurt.

He has been called worse.

-

The entrance to the tunnel appeared to be his only way out.

“I am never letting you talk me into anything, again.” Varric says and Lavellan’s laugh echoes behind him.

“I thought dwarves liked being underground.” Sera says from farther back.

“I thought elves liked frolicking in fields of green.” Varric retorts.

“I don’t _frolick_.” Lavellan protests. “And most fields are yellow.”

“Point. _Missed_.” Sera mutters. “Hurry up, it’s not like we can hold this forever. You’re heavy for such a little fucker.”

“I notice you don’t say anything about our charming Inquisitor’s weight.”

“You’re not that heavy.” Lavellan says. “I’m pretty sure most of the weight we’re feeling is Bianca.”

“Don’t listen to her, Bianca. You’re beautiful.”

“ _Gross_. Shut up and climb.”

“Any suggestions as to _how_ I climb straight up a vertical hole in the ceiling?”

“Do you want me to go first?”

“Because of course she knows.” Sera mutters. “Of course the Inquisitor can scale a perfectly perpendicular _tunnel_ with her _bare hands_.”

“You can’t?” Lavellan sounds honestly confused. “How do you all even figure out irrigation if you don’t get into a well?”

“We’ll talk about this some other time. Let’s get down and restructure so Lavellan can climb up.”


	66. Chapter 66

Cole knows he has to keep her still. So much blood, so much hurt, so much love – lost, what is lost can never be returned. Move on. Move forward. Isn’t that what the Iron Bull and Cassandra always say and do and think and _are?_ Sera, too.

Cole holds her and she is very still and does not need to be held, but he needs to hold.

Her eyes are closed.

Cole wants to chase after the wolf who caught his own tail – release it, let it go.

Her head is in his lap and his hands shake and her blood is on the skin of his body. Can he forgive? Cole isn’t sure if he’s good at forgiving without forgetting. It all just hurts on the inside.

Solas wanted him to forget.

Why?

He can feel the soft whispers of her breath shivering in the air. Good. It means she’s alive. It means he hasn’t lost her.

(Cole, how could I ever forget you?)

He swallows.

He knows that they are coming to help them. He knows them, he can feel their panic and their urgency. But he wants them here, now. He wants them here. She wants them here.

So many things to want. So many things to mourn.

Cole breathes and this place is beautiful and everything glistens. Everything is lush and green, the good kind of green that is not poison in her veins. And where it is not green it is the taste of autumn, gilded gold and glittering grass. So much blue sky. Unmarred, unscarred. Whole in ways Cole can tell _she will never be again_.

Cole holds her and his pants are warm-stiff with her blood. It won’t go back to where it belongs. It’s lost like he is.

Her skin is so pale. Like a picture. Removed. So many layers removed. Filtered.

Real, but not real. Her, but not her. Alive, but not alive.

“You can’t go to Mahanon, yet.” Cole whispers. “Not yet. We still need you here.”

 _I still need you here_.

He is, at once, with them – afraid and angry, lungs burning, expanding, mind spinning, headache forming, chest pounding, skin so hot and prickly, throat closing, so much panic and uncertainty. Blind and blurred with terror of _not knowing_. So many words, unspoken. So much fear. So much love. So much spoiled hatred.

And he is _him_  – fading, fast, receding beyond where Compassion can touch. Regret, sorrow, love, pain, longing, _desire_. False humility. He just doesn’t know it yet. This isn’t what he wanted. This is what he deserves. Sorry without being sorry. He shouldn’t say the words if he doesn’t mean it. Sorry means you wouldn’t do it again. He would do it, a thousand times over. Her blood, spilled, his hands, spilling, her pain, her _life, her death_  – lost, a thousand times over if he had to. False. Humility.

And he is not himself – memories that aren’t his, flickering lights overhead, the smell-taste of bodies. Rot. Flies buzzing. The sound electricity makes in dim bulbs, the rattle of your own breath. So much pain. Why was I born?

And he is her – fading, slipping, into darkness, away from the light, fast, unity? Shattered. Spirit broken, spirit whole. Treading the line between here and there. Loss of faith, loss of hope, loss of life, loss of love – freedom, finally. _At last. Duty is so heavy, responsibility is so bitter on the tongue, I never wanted this -_

And he is nothing. He is no one. He is Compassion.

He cannot make the world forget its own scars.

-

Varric figures he’s had quite a few years under his belt of being irresponsible, in that way the responsible and dutiful younger brother can be. And this is probably his punishment, or some twisted form of karma, for giving his parents so much grief as a kid.

Also, fuck Bartrand.

Lavellan and Merrill are doing handstands, faces slowly turning red as Dalish times them. Both are doing their best not to giggle and keep making faces at the other to try and get the other to lose it and fall over.

Varric is currently here in the room with them, watching this unfold, rather than elsewhere doing _things_. Important things.

The reason he is not elsewhere, is because _Cassandra_ and all that she entails is _somewhere_ in that elsewhere and Varric isn’t going to risk it because he isn’t, actually, a masochist. Despite what you might think from him living in Kirkwall, the asshole of Thedas, in Lowtown, the armpit of the asshole of Thedas, he really isn’t.

So he’s here, going into the third hour of this giggle-fest, as the three of them laugh and joke and tell stories and generally do what people do when they get together after not seeing each other for a long time.

Apparently Dalish – or at least _some_ Dalish – can get together and start talking like they’ve known each other since infancy even if they’re complete strangers.

Either that or Lavellan is just that much of a people person. Varric isn’t leaning one way or another, personally. But it’s probably the second bit.

“Aren’t there more Dalish in Skyhold than you three?” Varric asks.

“Yes, but they’re all busy right now.” Dalish, the person not the ethnic group, says. “Doing things.”

Important things, Varric fills in.

“They’re coming later.” Lavellan says. “I sent a message.”

It shouldn’t sound ominous, but it does.

This is Varric’s life in a nutshell.

-

He looked at his phone, turned pale, then quickly left the room. Sera watched him, smiling.

“Should I ask?” Bull says, eye still closed, arms crossed as he pretends to nap next to her.

“You could. You report everything to Lavellan, though, don’t you?”

“She gives me creative license to censor shit. I mean, she knows I do it, but she trusts me about it.” Bull slowly rolls his shoulders. “Why? Do something she wouldn’t approve of?”

“Something like that.” Sera smacks his arm. “Alright, you, up. We’ve got another round of suits to intimidate into doing our bidding.”

“Our bidding?”

“You get what I mean. Don’t do your picky spy mind ninja shit on me.”

Bull snorts, sitting up, boots thumping to the floor as he slowly stands and stretches. “Anyone ever tell you that you got a way with words? Does the spymaster know what you do?”

“I don’t report to her. Probably does, though.” Sera shrugs. “It doesn’t bother her, none, though. I mean, she hasn’t stopped me, right? And yeah. I’m fucking eloquent.”


	67. Chapter 67

He didn’t understand what he’d done to her, but he would by the time she was finished.

Vivienne knows this instantly, the moment Lavellan re-appears after her short period of uncertain death. Vivienne readily admits that she was hurt – more than she thought she would be – when Lavellan went missing. And sadder than she ever imagined being when they declared her dead. They didn’t even wait a full year.

Between the state she was in when she went missing, the state of the world, and the general lack of anything she seemed to take with her when she left -

Death was most likely the kindest option they could give her.

But now she has returned – once again, restoring faith to the faithful and instilling fear into the hearts of those who doubt. She may  not be Andrastian, but she’s very good at being an image of fear for one.

“My enemy’s enemy is my friend.” Lavellan says, a new kind of stillness and mystery to her that death cannot explain. “And my enemy has many of those. So I must have many friends.”

“Is that what we call him, now?” Vivienne asks, has to ask, because once, Lavellan fought tooth and claw to keep that word, that title, at bay.

Lavellan tilts her head. Once she was a bird and a kitten and a doe of a thing.

Vivienne knows better.

She thinks she should be proud. Awed.

She can only feel wry.

Solas, Solas, Solas. Look at the mess you’ve made.

Lavellan doesn’t answer but Vivienne feels like she’s spoken, audibly, anyway.

“It is good to see you.” Vivienne waves a hand, “Tea?”

“Please.” Lavellan moves with all the grace of something in the middle of pouncing. Vivienne wonders if Dorian or Sera has seen this new Lavellan, Varric or Josephine. It would break their hearts.

“Elves are going missing,” Vivienne says, “Would that happen to have to do anything with the – enemy?”

“Why do you ask questions that are not questions?” Lavellan hums.

“What will you do?”

“There is a game among the Dalish. Similar to your rock-paper-scissors. But it is somewhat more violent. More physical. I find that a lot of Dalish games are,” Lavellan says. Vivienne waits because Lavellan has always been good at making a point, even when it didn’t seem like she was. In hindsight, Vivienne recognizes this, now. This strategy of hers. “As long as you have two people you can play. You divide your group into teams. Halla-wolf-fox-bear-snake-raven. There are more groups you could add on if there are enough people – owl, hawk, hare, mountain cat. So on and so forth. Each one is weak to many, but also strong against many. They all have strengths and weaknesses. In a group halla can overwhelm bear. Bear can catch wolf with a single touch. Raven can use the sky. Can you guess which one I was normally in?”

Vivienne’s first instinct is to say _halla, of course_. Vivienne did not get this far in life listening to _instincts_.

“Wolf.”

Lavellan smiles.

“Yes. Can you guess which one I was _best_ at?”

Vivienne does not answer.

“Snake.” Vivienne stills because Lavellan has appeared behind her, frost still settling in the wake of her sudden movement. Lavellan’s fingers are warm as they press against Vivienne’s neck. Just the tips of her pointer and middle finger, warm and firm. “The snake, alone, is weak and easy to take out. However the snake has the ability to last to the end of the game. The snake wins with a single finger. The wolf has numbers. Snakes do not work in groups, they are not effective. They get tangled, convoluted, easily caught unawares, easily infiltrated. Does this sound familiar?”

“Yes.” Vivienne breathes, fire on the edges of her teeth. Lavellan lowers her hand. “Is that why you left?”

“I left because snakes must shed their skin to grow.” Lavellan replies. “As when one plays with fire, you cannot attack a snake and expect to pass unharmed.”

Vivienne closes her eyes and smiles. Wry and respectful.

“I always knew you would go so far, my dear.”

-

She was beginning to realize how far down in her memory she had buried – she had buried.

_She had buried._

Cassandra feels old in ways she doesn’t like thinking about and she wonders how Cullen deals with it. Soldiers do not age with grace.

There is so much that the both of them have missed in life. She wonders if he regrets any of it. Cassandra has many regrets, but they are useless things to spend time on. She is not good at looking to the past. She has and always does look forward. Forward is easier.

There are too many ghosts of dead futures in her past for her to feel comfortable lingering with.

But sometimes – sometimes they slide up and over her shoulders, quiet like assassins as they cover her nose and mouth with their ash hands, stealing the breath from her. Jealous things.

A memory hits her – youth, the perpetual lingering smell of incense from the Necropolis, formaldehyde that might have already imprinted itself into her skin. And Anthony.

Perfect and amazing and everything in her eyes.

Cassandra is familiar with this kind of longing.

It aches, an old wound over muscle that makes movement hesitant, always the smallest twinge, hitch, shift with every breath. Never smooth, not like it was before.

His memory, her memory, aches.

For Lavellan it is not yet a wound.

It is a bleeding and weeping infection, unclean and unattended to, left open and raw for everything to pick at.

Cassandra is not good at talking. Nor is she good at comfort.

She is not good at stories, or relating to others. She is aware that she is abrasive, awkward, and at time tactless.

But Cassandra knows loss. She knows heartache. Cassandra, too, has lost many in her life.

Cassandra, too, has lost her life.

The Seekers were hers long before the Inquisition and the Divine.

“Anthony did not like carrots.” Cassandra says sitting down next to Lavellan. Lavellan turns her head in her folded arms, one painfully dry eye looking straight at her. “Anthony did not like them raw, with dressing, steamed, boiled, fried, baked, diced, sliced, shredded, peeled, alone, in gravy. He did not like carrots _period_. And to this end he would always make diversions so that he could shove them all onto my plate, or put them in his napkin.”

Cassandra leans back, the front legs of the chair raising a little.

“What he did not know was that the cooks would puree carrots and put that into the sauce or into his juice.”

Lavellan snorts.

“My father,” Lavellan whispers, and Cassandra understands – sometimes you do not want to share what is important to you because it is yours, it does not hurt that she only speaks the name to the Iron Bull or Cole, because this is not about Cassandra this is about Lavellan. “My father could not stand the smell of lavender. Our clan – one of our clan’s biggest trade commodities was dried lavender and lavender products.”


	68. Chapter 68

If Varric were the praying type, this is about where he would start chanting and kneeling and staring at the sky like it’s going to talk back. Considering that it’s currently vomiting demons, he’s actually worried it _might_.

“They found a girl at the wreckage.” Cullen had said to him in passing. Honestly, Varric still isn’t sure if Cullen’s about to arrest him and throw him behind bars – belatedly, for all the shit he caused in Kirkwall – or if Cullen is dead on the inside and doesn’t give a shit anymore, suddenly becoming one of the chill Templars you always hope you get but never do.

“They found a lot at the wreckage. I’m sure there were plenty of corpses of girls.” Varric replies.

“Never said this one was a corpse.” Cullen replies and walks off to do important things, leaving Varric floundering in the mystery.

It’s the beginning of a B-grade sci-fi movie.

Varric is either the jaded narrator, or the minor side character that’s about to die. He’s not sure which one he’d prefer, considering he was already the jaded narrator for the prequel to this B-grade sci-fi movie and spiritual ancestor, _Kirkwall_.

But Varric is stuck here and he wants to know what the fuck is going on and what’s going to happen because the Divine is dead, the Temple exploded and it’s looking like Kirkwall all over again and everyone knows how Kirkwall went, is still going. All this party needs is some red lyrium.

Varric doesn’t see the girl when they bring her in, but he does know that they’re keeping her in the prison cells below the Chantry. Varric’s always wondered why the Chantry had jail cells and he’s always found that he never really wanted to know the answer.

So Varric hasn’t seen her, but he knows a few things.

One, she’s Dalish, and infiltrated them wearing the uniform of one of the Nightingale's scout’s uniforms. Which is – someone’s going to get a reaming over that.

Two, she’s a mage. A lot of people are going to get fucked up because of that. The actions of one mage are never the actions of just one mage.

Three, her hand has a glowing scar that matches the one in the sky.

Varric almost misses the creepy red lyrium idol. At least that shit was contained.

Four – she’s really, really, terrifyingly young in the scope of things.

Varric’s _oh-shit_ senses are tingling. Call him a sucker, but he doesn’t think everything is adding up the way people want them to.

His gut says things aren’t as they appear.

-

“Do you think that your Maker is capable of miracles?” Lavellan asks, carefully, slowly. Blackwall looks at her, briefly, aware of how much of a loaded gun that question can be.

“I want to,” He admits, because there is no need to lie and pretend with her. She makes it easy to tell the truth. Almost too easy. Some things are meant to be left alone. “I don’t know.”

Lavellan’s voice is low, somehow whispered in his ear and yet so quiet he has to strain.

“Does your god care about you? Does your god listen and deliver?”

“No.” Blackwall says, trying to keep his voice as quiet as hers and feeling like he’s screaming his disbelief to the world. Exposed, vulnerable, a target. It isn’t a good feeling and he doesn’t know how she can do this so blandly, boldly, _daily_.

Lavellan folds her hands together, and then unfolds them again, runs her thumb over the place the Anchor is underneath her glove.

“My gods are silent. They are not miracle makers. They are punishers and they are creators and destroyers. But they are silent and absent, except for the wolf among them. He listens. He watches. He waits. But I do not know if he will answer me when I pray. I do not know if I want him to.” Lavellan pushes her thumb to the center of her palm. “Fen’harel is not bad, he is not good. He simply _is_. I am afraid to be tricked. But I am also afraid to fail. The wolf always delivers. The wolf protects. The wolf hunts. I need the wolf. Does the wolf need me?”

Theology is not Blackwall’s strong point. He struggles enough with his metaphysical self.

“Do I want him to need me? Is it a bad thing to be needed by the wolf? It isn’t bad to need the wolf. Would it be the opposite of the reverse?”

“Why don’t you ask Solas?”

She shakes her head.

“Solas, for all that he is wise with experience and knowledgeable of many things, lacks faith. He dismisses faith and belief as one would a child that cries of monsters in the night.” Lavellan closes her hands together. “I do not need someone to dismiss my concerns as figments. I need someone to hear them and speak with me of them, so that I could recognize them and put them to rest.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I am hardly a theologian.”

She smiles at her hands.

“I am not looking for a debate or an expert or a scholar. I am looking for someone of faith, who has doubted, who struggles, who questions. Cassandra and Cullen struggle and occasionally doubt, but their faith remains strong and true. Leliana questions and struggles, but never doubts. Sera does not doubt or struggle or question.”

“I was never that religious to start with.” Blackwall admits. “More a habit than anything.”

“That’s fine.” Lavellan touches knee with her own before pulling back. “You listen. You’re good at listening.”

“Perhaps I just know how to shut up.” He scratches his cheek. “If your gods are silent, why do you pray to them?”

“Habit.” Her lips quirk up, “And hope. Respect. Mindfulness. Caution. All sorts of things. Sometimes I don’t even know if I want them to listen. The wolf is a different story. I never know if I want him to listen.”

“Maybe he doesn’t.”

“But he does, Blackwall. The wolf is everywhere. The wolf is in us. The wolf is around us. Sometimes we are the wolf.”

“So – are your gods a metaphor?”

“Sometimes.” She breathes out, long. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve spoiled your night. And you just came back from a long drive, too. I’ll leave you to your drink. Varric’s organizing a billards tournament, by the way. I think I’m going to go look at the roster and see if I want to play.”


	69. Chapter 69

Most vivid among the memories of  his home – the place he was born and _became_  – is the laughter. The world was so full of laughter and wonder, back then. It’s harder to find, now.

Solas has traveled through villages, poor and falling apart, war torn and starving. There is wonder there, brief and fickle. Delicate. Faint. It must be found. It is not flaunted. Wonder is such a precious thing. It is _there_ , but it must be _sought_.

He has traveled through cities with buildings that attempt to reach the skies – they do not know how the sky was once home, not a limit or a boundary, but just another plane. Another district. Another level, as one would consider a third or fourth story to a building. And there is wonder, there, too – found in brief moments and glances, held in breaths and in between heart beats.

He misses that sense of wonder. Discovery, innovation, admiration, _dreaming_ around every corner – underneath every rock, behind each cloud, pinned down between rays of the sun.

He misses it. Sometimes painfully, mostly regretfully. He understands his role in it. The wholesale destruction.

But wonder is something that persists. Laughter, too. And it is always – refreshing, is one word, he supposes.

Dorian laughs, a loud burst that drags him out of his thoughts and when he turns Varric is telling a story with large gestures. Lavellan leans forward, eager to absorb every single exaggerated detail and Dorian puts an arm around her and whispers something in her ear that makes her kick out and close her eyes with happiness.

Solas watches and remembers a time like that. Was the laughter shared then still good, even if he was ignorant of what the joke was?

“You were happy, just like she’s happy. That’s not wrong.” Solas closes his eyes.

Cole is a wavering and shallow shadow at his back. Solas glances over his shoulder. Cole is playing with the zipper of his new jacket, head facing down, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Cole.” His keeps his voice gentle. Spirits don’t know any better.

“She’s worried about you. She can tell you’re distancing yourself from her. She thinks that she’s done something wrong. You were upset about her letting the Wardens stay. I don’t like it, either. But I’m not angry at her. Varric doesn’t like it, either. She doesn’t mind it when I’m upset about or Varric doesn’t like something about what she’s done. It’s different with you.” Cole zips his sweater up and pulls up his hood over his hat. “You want to be approved of by the people you admire. How come you don’t approve of the things she does?”

“ _Cole_.” He repeats, voice a little firmer. Cole sways back onto his heels.

“I’m just _saying_.” Cole murmurs, a touch of recalcitrance in his voice. He wonders if that’s Sera or Lavellan’s influence. “You should join them. She likes your stories best. Better than the Iron Bull’s, even. And she likes his voices.”

-

She glanced around to see if anything had been taken. Assassins are one thing, thieves are another. She supposes that it was about time she was targeted for a hit.

It would be odd if the lead Ambassador of the Inquisition _didn’t_ have a target on her back.

Nothing seems obviously out of place, but of course she supposes it wouldn’t. And she supposes there wasn’t exactly enough time for someone to steal something in the midst of all the commotion.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan says, hand gentle on Josephine’s arm as she guides her to a seat. “I’m sorry, Josephine.”

Josephine breathes.

“This isn’t your fault. It is I who am sorry for bringing this to the Inquisition. You have enough on your plate without me adding on my personal problems.”

Leliana snorts.

“Josephine.” Lavellan laughs. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but half of the problems of the Inquisition _are_ personal problems. I’m just glad that I can help you for once. You’re always doing so much for me.”

Lavellan turns away from her to look around the office. “I’m just glad you aren’t hurt. I’m sorry that this happened. How did the House of Repose even get _in_ Skyhold? Cole would sense that, normally.”

“Cole?” Josephine blinks.

Lavellan turns and beams at her. “Cole thinks you’re wonderful. He’s very upset about this whole assassination business. You’re very nice, you know. Cole doesn’t like many people as much as he likes you.”

“Thank you?”

“Thank _you_.” Lavellan turns and starts picking up some papers that had fallen during the scuffle. “Where are the rest of your staff?”

“Leliana dismissed them. There’s going to be questions. Later, maybe right now? I’m not sure. It all happened so quickly. Oh – leave it, Inquisitor. I’ll sort it out.”

“Don’t be silly, Josephine. Take a chance to breathe. Do you want some tea?” Lavellan tips her head up and squints at the lights. “Is this the sort of situation that requires hard liquor? I’d ask Dorian but he thinks every situation is good for any sort of liquor. How about sandwiches? Have you eaten lunch yet? I’ve eaten three breakfasts and I really do want to move on to lunch.”

“You have a luncheon and tea later. Don’t get full.” Josephine reminds her out of reflex. Lavellan sighs. “And there’s a brief meet and greet at around four before dinner.”

Lavellan glances towards the door.

“Josephine do you ever stop being so level headed?” She neatly stacks the papers on Josephine’s desk. You’re so responsible it makes my head spin. I hope I never see you rattled, Josephine.”

“An Antivan never crumbles under pressure, Inquisitor,” Josephine replies, shaking her head softly. “And please. Don’t mind me. Leliana and I will handle this.”

“I always mind you, Josephine. That’s what friends do.” Lavellan hums, pulling up a chair next to her. “I’m just going to sit here until someone comes to find me. At least this gives us a break, you know. I like taking breaks.” Lavellan swings her feet up onto a desk, gently nudging aside a cup of coffee with the tips of her toes. “Do you like my nail polish? Sera got it for me. It’s very glittery and it hasn’t chipped in a week. Josephine, who does your nails? They always look very pretty and even.”

 


	70. Chapter 70

“What do you miss most?” Lavellan asks Dalish, both of them sitting on one of the ramparts as they watch Cullen sort out supplies for trip to Halamshiral.

Dalish’s fingertips brush against hers, and she smiles a little when she knocks their ankles together.

“Hard question. The first thing that pops to mind is the food.” Dalish laughs, tipping her face towards the sun, which has finally decided to show itself after playing hide-and-seek with the low clouds most of the morning. “I don’t know why. There’s so much _variety_ among the shemlen. And there’s food everywhere, you can’t walk two paces without something telling you about the kind of food you can be eating. But I miss the food. I feel like I haven’t had _real_ bread in ages.”

“Still warm from the stone.” Lavellan sighs, longingly. “Fingertips getting burned when you try and sneak a piece off the edge when the baker isn’t looking.”

“But worth it when it melts in your mouth.” Dalish closes her eyes. “A game between you and the other da’len to see who can sneak the biggest piece.”

“And then when you got older, a game to see if you could be the one to catch the da’len.”

“And learning that the bakers always made the bread a little bit bigger to account for all the pieces the da’len sneak.” Dalish and Lavellan share a laugh. “What kind of patterns did you make in your bread?”

“Well, we’re a Free Marcher clan for the most part, so usually we did _ivy on broken wall_.” Lavellan kicks her heels against the stone wall and they both pause to watch as the soldiers start loading Leliana’s equipment into one of their trucks. “But when I was born we started doing _winged gates_ more.”

Dalish nods. “Makes sense. _Winged gates_ is a elgar’vhen pattern, for Dirthamen and Falon’din, isn’t it?”

“It’s _hard_.” Lavellan moans, leaning back on her palms. “There are all these little details that you don’t even see that well when the bread rises, but the bakers always insist anyway – I’d try to skip the ones I know aren’t going to come out but they can always tell! Whenever it was my birthday they would always insist on _rising raven_ or _the hearth of bears_. They were so pretty but they took forever to do and I’d have to do it myself. How come Falon’din’s pattern is always so much easier?”

“Because everyone uses Falon’din’s pattern for their bread.” Dalish snorts. “Every anniversary. They can’t make it complicated or we’d die just trying to finish it every time. My clan mostly stuck to Sylaise’s patterns, to be honest. They didn’t mind much if we made variances, too. You could tell who made what by the patterns, the little touches. I liked to make Ghilan’nain’s pattern, though.”

“Her patterns are the most fun to make.” Lavellan agrees. “But June’s are the simplest.”

“I think I miss making the bread and sneaking the bread and watching it more than eating it.” Dalish muses. “They don’t have that, here.”

“Yes.” Lavellan says. “I think I miss setting up the wards and the first fire. The ceremony of it, you know? There isn’t the time for it, here. And I feel judged whenever I do it. Like people think I’m stupid.”

“They don’t know our ways.” Dalish closes her eyes. “They don’t understand what we have lost and why we try to hold on.”

-

“You’re lonely. But I don’t understand. I brought you kittens. And everyone is here. You could go to them. Do you want me to bring them to you? Dorian wants a distraction. Skinner can’t find a meditation partner. Josephine wants to eat something.”

“I know there are people here.” She says, eyes closed, arms folded around her middle as she presses her heels into the ground. The mattress sinks a little as Cole shifts closer to  her. “That’s why I’m lonely.”

Cole’s eyes search her face for something he cannot read in her soul.

“Leliana watches from the shadows, she misses her days as a bard. To walk unknown and unseen, to be whoever she wants, wherever she wants. No one knows her name, but that just means she can give it, freely. Her words aren’t weights, her words are wings. Opinions fly free. But now she is the hand, the shadow, part of divinity – never again will she walk and fly as she once did. All places are barred and open to her at once.”

“No. Not like that.” Lavellan shakes her head.

Cole frowns, fingers curling into the quilt Krem and Dalish made Lavellan as he tries to puzzle his way through this.

“Surrounded but alone. The jokes aren’t the same, the food isn’t the same – it doesn’t matter that much if the language isn’t the same because Tevene wasn’t used that much in most conversations and he’s more used to common anyway. But the colors and weather are wrong, the seasons aren’t shifting right. Every step he takes he isn’t sure if there will be floor underneath his feet to carry his weight. Did he say something wrong, yet again? Why is no one laughing? How come no one is offended? What isn’t he getting?”

Lavellan shakes her head. “Not that way, either.”

“I don’t understand.”

The kittens play and fumble around on the floor, batting at her scattered clothes.

Lavellan points at them. “Like that, Cole. I’m lonely like that.”

Cole watches the kittens and doesn’t understand.

“For as long as I have been alive in this body, in this lifetime, in this self, I have never been without. But now, he’s gone. And I must live knowing that I can never return to his side, in this lifetime. That he is alone on the other side, and that he is waiting for me, as I am waiting for him to return to this side of the gates. We must find each other again. But right now I am alone. I am surrounded in people, but I am alone and missing the part of me that has always been there.”

“You miss him?”

“Yes.” She closes her eyes and hangs her head. “Terribly. Painfully.”

“I can’t fix that.” Cole whispers.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Nothing can.”

Cole slides off the bed and carefully hugs her legs, pressing the corner of his mouth to her knee. She gently takes off his hat and runs her hand through his hair. With every pass of the Anchor, Cole feels a faint and far-away tug.

“I am alone. Even when I am surrounded. I am alone because I am not myself. I do not stand at my own side.”


	71. Chapter 71

“You _hurt me_.” She says, to the dream vision of the wolf. “You hurt me. It doesn’t matter _why_ you did it, but you did and you can’t take it back. Just like how Dorian’s father can’t take it back, how Bull’s friend Gatt can’t take it back, how the woman who tried to raise Sera can’t take it back. _You cannot take back hurt_. That’s why it _hurts_. Hurt knows no reason, no logic, no pragmatism.”

Lately she has been dreaming of this confrontation. She is both an actress and spectator in this play.

As a spectator slash director she says – no, the words aren’t right. This is not what I should be saying. Here is where I should be soft, here is where I should be hard. Here is where I should spit venom into his eyes and burn them shut, as he is blind to the true plight of the People, blind to the world so too should he be blinded from the light he seeks to grasp as if he truly were a god among mortals.

But as the actress, the narrator, the speaker, and the Lavellan in the dream-moment, she gets it perfectly every time.

She still wakes up regretting. It never seems right.

She is lucky to dream it over and over again, in that sense.

Solas left her with the ability to shape her own dreams, an awareness of this dream-plane most could only imagine.

“You hurt me.” Her dream-self – a self, she believes, exists somewhere far from here, a past and future self that says these things in another world, another time - “You _hurt me_.”

In her dreams, Solas only stands there and _takes it_.

Not once does he defend himself, say anything back.

At times he looks resigned and weary to her battering of words – sometimes fists, sometimes teeth, sometimes tears.

In her dreams, Lavellan is not bound to the one-armed mortal woman.

Sometimes she is young, bare-faced, two armed, and round-cheeked. Sometimes she is a skinny and hunch-backed, gray and silver and washed out white. Sometimes she has two hands and one of them glows a venomous fire. Sometimes she is bleeding, and fading fast.

Sometimes she has two hands and neither of them are sparkling with rage.

Sometimes, though – because these are dreams, and dreams draw from reality and memory, and Lavellan has many realities and many memories – she is not a mortal woman.

In some dreams she is a doe, rearing and angry in ways a doe normally is not. Sometimes she is halla, horn and all. In some dreams she hisses, a serpent with venom frothing in her blood, coiled and striking repeatedly at the thinnest points of his flesh. Sometimes she is the bear, large and looming, rending him limb from limb.

Her hurt takes on a new violence in her animal forms. And still he does not fight her. Resist her.

Many times – more than halla, snake, bear, raven -

She is _wolf_.

He has shaped her in more ways than he should ever have had a right to.

In her dreams, sometimes he looks like he wants to say something back to her – to argue, to defend himself. But he does not. Sometimes he looks her in the eye. Sometimes he looks at a point over her shoulder, he looks at the place her hand should be, where the Anchor would be. Sometimes he doesn’t look at her at all.

Worst are the ones where he turns his back to her.

Sometimes, in those dreams, his shoulders will move as if he were taking a breath to say something – and every time she can’t stop herself from stopping. Waiting. _Hoping_.

She wakes up from those dreams angry at being surprised and hurt by the disappointment.

-

“You smoke?” Dorian looks surprised as he watches her lean close to Skinner, the tips of their ears touching as Skinner lights her cigarette. Not as good as the blends you can find in the clans, but why should she expect anything better?

“Sometimes.” Lavellan replies, taking in a slow breath. “Not good for the lungs.”

Lavellan smiles at him, slow, as she pushes out smoke. “Among other things.”

“I learn something new about you every day.” Dorian muses. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I’ll have you know that sometimes it’s ritualistic. But that’s the heavy stuff. I don’t like the heavy stuff. Bad dreams.” Lavellan replies.

“I feel like you’re having me on.” Dorian’s lips twitch upwards.

Lavellan and Skinner shrug. Skinner makes the lighter disappear with a flick of her wrist. She’s as good a magician as any mage, Lavellan thinks.

“You could ask Solas.” Skinner says.

“And ruin the fun? I think not.” Dorian rolls his eyes, “Any good?”

Lavellan offers the cigarette to him.

“Tell you the truth, I used to smoke.” Dorian says, waving his hand. She takes the cigarette back. “To the point of excess. Felix helped me kick the habit. I smelled just awful after an all-nighter, according to him. It would ruin my already tragic reputation. And we can’t have that.”

“I’m surprised that you didn’t rebel just for the sake of it.” Skinner says as Lavellan tips her head back, staring at the sky as she blows little rings.

“That and cancer runs on my mother’s side.” Dorian replies. Lavellan closes her eyes and feels the tip of Dorian’s boot gently nudge against her sneaker. “You ready to back inside, yet?”

“I just lit the cigarette, Dorian. Let’s not be wasteful about it.” Lavellan answers. “Are you cold? You can go in without me.”

“I prefer it out here, in the cold, with you two lovely ladies for company than in there.” Dorian’s hand rests on her hip. “It smells worse inside.”

“It smells like piss and vomit and garbage out here.” Skinner replies.

“Yes, but there’s smog and exhaust to filter that out.” Dorian retorts. “Inside it just _stagnates_. I worry it will seep into my hair by the time we have to leave.”

“Then we’ll make this a quick trip.” Lavellan says. “For your hair.”


	72. Chapter 72

Sera’s seen templars. She’s seen them up close, she’s seen them from far away. She’s seen them when they’re kind of young and new to the thing, and she’s seen the ones who aren’t as shiny and sparkly, and she’s seen the ones who’re -

 _Past their prime_ , to put it nicely. Sera doesn’t always put things nicely, but when she thinks about those templars she feels like she should try.

She feels sorry for them.

Cullen isn’t like those templars, though. Sometimes she can see it in him, but he tries really hard not to be. He isn’t burned out, yet. Kind of guttering, and that’s risky, but he’s trying and that’s painful and Sera understands trying.

Cullen isn’t like those templars. He’s weirdly in shape. She wonders how bad it hurts and then feels bad about wondering. Guilty. Like she’s peeking in on secret or something.

Sometimes Sera wonders why he became a templar. It’s not a bad profession. Someone has to keep mages in line and away from the rest of the normal people. But she figures that people got to have reasons and Cullen is good people so maybe he has a better reason than keeping mages away and from hurting people. Or maybe he’s that kind of good people. Who knows?

Varric says he’s changed, but Sera isn’t sure. You can’t just change someone from evil-argh-antagonist to good like _that_. It’s got to take something. And time. Lots of time.

Cullen might look it, but he isn’t old enough for that kind of change.

Sometimes Sera considers asking, but again – she’s trying.

She doesn’t always get it right, but she’s trying and sometimes it’s really, really hard to act all proper and shit but she figures she must get something right occasionally because Cullen gives her some really cool looking – whats-its, _spats_? Spats, with some buttons on the sides in this really nice kind of brick color with these little glittery threads going through them. Just because. It’s not her birthday or anything, and it’s not like he’s sweet on her – yuck, no offense, but _yuck_  – he just does it because he’s good people like that. The kind of good people Sera does her best to make sure the Jennies know about because it’s all fine and good to know who’s a giant pisshole but it’s also really great to know that there are people like him out there that make this worth it.

-

“She’s still mad at you.” Krem says. “I am, too, but I’m professional about it.”

“Good to know.” Blackwall replies.

“And because I’m a professional, I’m invested in seeing you alive. You should run.”

“Where would I _go_?”

Krem shrugs. “Should’ve thought about that sooner.”

Blackwall closes his eyes and Cassandra’s wrath is a physical being that enters the room before she does. Said wrath sits itself down next to black wall and invites three of its friends to fill up the spaces next to it, leaving Cassandra four seats over.

It shouldn’t hurt, and somehow it does. Blackwall supposes you can’t stop your emotions from being absolutely pathetic idiots.

Krem quietly moves a few seats over before giving up and leaving the room. That leaves Blackwall and a good portion of the late-night insomniacs who tend to just hang around the cafeteria after dinner hours are over.

Blackwall used to go to the bar, sometimes the library.

Both are different types of oppressive.

Something about the artificial lighting and empty displacement of the mess hall doesn’t have that. If Blackwall were the type, he’d go into that and pick at it until he knew why and could say it out loud.

No one ever accused him of being wise.

Cowardly and traitorous, yes. Wise, not so much.

Blackwall slowly closes his hands together and wishes he were the praying sort. It is not the first time he’s wondered if the real Blackwall was.

What would the real Blackwall do?

He should get that tattooed across his fucking forehead.

Cassandra’s anger is very loud as she seethes in silence four seats away.

Two nights ago she was five seats away, so he supposes that he has about a week before he should consider locking himself into his room in the stables every night past supper.

“I do not understand you. I do not think I ever will.” Cassandra eventually says, “And to try would make me want to rip that beard off of your face repeatedly. So I won’t.”

“Should I thank you for small mercies?”

He can actually hear her fist clenching. He has no idea where his self preservation skills have gone. Almost twenty fucking years of lying low and avoiding trouble and here he is mouthing off to the Right Hand of the Divine, Cassandra-too-many-names-to-count-Pentaghast of Nevarra.

Maker’s balls.

“If I were the Iron Bull I would be able to start over, wipe the slate clean and consider you a stranger with whom I must build a new report with. If I were Cullen I would look at your confession with respect and weigh your past actions in your favor. I am not Bull, I am incapable of the kind of mechanical feeling he is. And I am not Cullen, full of mercy and empathy and guilt. I am – myself and stubborn and aggressive. And as _some_ would say, a romantic.”

Varric, Blackwall translates.

“So this is me. Trying. I don’t know if I will ever succeed, but for the sake of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor, I will make the effort.” Cassandra breathes and stands up. “I just wanted to tell you that. So – stop brooding. Sitting alone in silence does nothing to redeem you. Take action. Face your mistake and the repercussions of it like a warrior of your caliber should.”

Cassandra hesitates before nodding, a quick jerk of the head, and turning on her heel to march off to Maker knows where.

Blackwall watches her go from the corner of his eye and breathes a sigh of relief when the doors swing shut behind her.

He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or grateful or what. He supposes he ought to think on that.


	73. Chapter 73

“Josephine, I think you filled this out wrong. There are too many circles after this number.”

“Zeroes.” Josephine corrects her automatically, before stopping to shake her head and hold out her hand. “Apologies. What is the problem?”

“There are too many zeroes.” Lavellan says, handing Josephine the check, resting her chin on the edge of Josephine’s desk. “More zeroes than I thought you could put on the back of a number.”

Josephine feels her lips twitch upwards. “No, this is indeed the correct number.”

Lavellan’s eyes slowly go wide, it’s adorable, really. The woman has killed demons, darkspawn, Tevinter terrorists, red templars, and dragons – and bears, sometimes with her bare hands, no pun intended – and she’s _adorable_.

“You have to be wrong but you’re never wrong when it comes to numbers.” Lavellan whispers, voice lowering with awe and surprise. “Sera’s told me all about how elves don’t get paid like shemlen and _this is nothing like how much those elves get paid_.”

“This is the Inquisition.” Josephine replies. “And you are our Inquisitor. You get paid like everyone else.”

“I have a _castle_.” Lavellan replies. “And a bedroom and books and clothes and three meals a day plus snacks and a place to let my stag sleep _and_ I get paid? Josephine, you’re playing a mean trick on me.”

“You’ve _been_ getting paid.” Josephine laughs. “Cullen or I just normally put your checks straight into your account for you. Varric’s been teaching you more about economics and accounting so I thought you’d like going to the bank to deposit a check yourself.”

Lavellan stares at her, unblinking and – possibly _not breathing_.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine slowly reaches out to touch Lavellan’s fingertips with her own. “Are you alright?”

“I have a _bank account_?” Lavellan whispers.

“You’ve _had_ a bank account.” Josephine feels her eyebrows raise. “Since just after you talked to Mother Giselle at the Hinterlands refugee base.”

Lavellan’s fingers slowly move to cover her mouth.

“Are you alright?”

“ _And you’ve been putting this much money into my bank account since then_?”

“Well – no, at first it was something slightly above Solas’ original consulting fee. That’s about the same as Adan’s contract. But you slowly got increases the further the Inquisition grew and the more you did. Then you became the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan makes a soft, high pitched sound into her hands.

She hasn’t blinked yet.

“This is _mine_?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“What do I _do with it_?” Lavellan whispers. “That’s a lot of zeroes.”

Josephine wonders if she should pull up Lavellan’s bank account on the computer and show her the rest of them.

Then she decides that the Inquisitor has had enough excitement for one day.

“Why don’t you ask Dorian what to do with all that money? I’m sure he will have many sensible – and many more irresponsible – ideas for you.” Starting with better looking shoes. Then again – the Inquisition basically buys her everything she needs, and the rest is supplied through incredibly generous gifts.

Lavellan turns and _sprints_ out of Josephine’s office. Josephine rests her cheek on her hand and sighs after her.

“And that is why I love my job.”

-

“I wanted that.” Lavellan says, knees tucked against her chest as she stares at the dark and tarnished mirror. Sometimes she thinks she sees vague shadow images on the other side. Mostly she understands that it’s her own hope.

“Wanted what?” Solas asks and she doesn’t want to look at him right now because something inside of her warns her – it warns her of hurt. Of lies. Of deceit. She doesn’t want to believe that voice.

But the way he _spoke_ , the way he _moved_ , the way he carried himself in the Temple -

He is holding more from her than he lets on. More than he should have and it makes her insides roil. Confused.

And the way he spoke to Abelas – that name, why? Of all the names in the world, why that one? Did he choose it? Is that the name given to him by his parents? Mythal?  Himself? _Who named him for such a thing_? – is undeniable.

Solas is hiding something from her.

So she does not look at him because if she looks at  him it feels like her insides will freeze and heat and shatter like metal if she sees what his face looks like right now.

She feels so brittle. So much longing, so much _want_  – it was all there. She could have spent _years_ of her life in that temple. Studying, learning, just sitting in the sunlight, on broken tile among the silence and stillness of frozen time. She would have happily slept there in silence, eaten there, lived there, died there. Just to have the opportunity to learn. To see. To soak in everything lost.

And the hurt of Morrigan – of Solas – of Abelas. The hurt of Corypheus, of Samson.

All that blood – spilled, ancient and old and enduring through all these years _ruined_. Because of her. Because of _this_. Because of one shemlen who didn’t understand why death is important, and why the Gods are not meant to be trifled with.

“I wanted it all.” She eventually whispers, throat closing with so much desire it makes her eyes sting. She has glimpsed – she has glimpsed _glory_ and it has been taken from her.

“It goeth before the fall.” Solas says, sitting next to her. She feels his mana stretch out for her, a rare instance of affection that she wants but -

She is too brittle. Too stung by the betrayal he thinks he disguises.

She pulls her mana tight against her skin and she lets him hesitate before slowly withdrawing back into himself.

“The first of the Maker’s children watched across the Veil and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.” Solas recites. “Erudition 2:1.”

“There I saw the Black City, towers all stain’d, gates once bright golden forever shut. Heaven filed with silence, then did I know all and cross’d my heart with unbearable shame.” She replies, “Andraste 1:11.”

Two can play at this game.

“I should have said _no_.” Lavellan whispers. “It could have been _mine_.”

“At what _price_ da’len? Your freedom? You _self_? These are things that you cannot give away so freely.”

“Why do you all think that I do not consider my own actions?”

“You are the Inquisitor of Thedas. Your very existence is a loaded gun. If that gun falls in the wrong hands – “

“I know the price of my fall.” She says, closing her eyes against her want. “I don’t think you understand just how much that has been impressed upon me. But I should have said no. To you, to her. To all of you. I should have taken it. It was my birthright, not hers. It was mine. I performed the rituals. I am the one who chose to partner with the elves, _I am the only one of the people who cares to walk among you_.”

She breathes.

“Leave me alone. Please. Just give me time to feel my own regret.” She presses her forehead to her folded arms.

She feels him hesitate before smoothly rising.

“Na nuvenin, da’len.”


	74. Chapter 74

“Are you going to tell her?” Cole says.

“No.” Bull replies, leaning against the archway of the rotunda, looking up at the stone. A few candles and a couple of industrial LED stands light up the room. It’s otherwise empty and quiet, everyone gone to sleep or gone home or just gone.

“Not gone, just not here,” Cole protests.

“Gone is gone.” Bull replies. “If he isn’t here when it matters, then it doesn’t matter where he is.”

Cole either doesn’t have anything to say to that or holds it back in a strange turn of censorship.

Bull doesn’t come here, often. He never even really paid attention to the elf’s paintings when he _did_ pass through here as a shortcut to the Commander’s place, or to talk with the Spymaster. Of course, there are the things he couldn’t turn off -

The style of the paintings, the way they date, the way they remind him of old pictures he studied when he was studying the Dalish and the original elven empire. The method and the planning, all of it. The smell of the paint and the way Solas did the layers and created effects of shadow and shimmering distance.

The way the images seemed to reflect the events they live through, a pictorial record of history.

But now, looking at the thing in its completeness, for all that the last of the panels is only hurriedly and faintly suggested – he can see it for what it is.

“You won’t tell her.” Cole repeats, accusing instead of asking.

“Nope.” Bull replies, reaching out to grasp Cole by the back of the neck before he can disappear. A lucky shot, he doesn’t always catch the kid. But this time he does. “And you won’t either.”

It isn’t a record – at least, it isn’t _just_ that.

It’s a love letter.

Bull sees it, now – maybe now that its writer has left, abandoned ship, maybe now in hindsight, with time and distance and new perspective.

Lavellan is too close to it. It’s in her, she’s in it. She can’t see it. Maybe someday she will, but not yet.

It’s not a love letter in the steamy-sex way, or even in the epic-romance kind of way. It’s a love letter in the way that -

“Tama is relieved in secret. She hides her relief, her joy – her regret and her laughter because at least _you got away_.” Cole whispers.

It’s the letter you find, tucked between pages of a book, in between carefully folded clothes, behind a picture in a picture frame. A secret letter that says _goodbye, I love you, I’m sorry. Please take care of yourself._

It’s the letter you find attached to a will.

“She was _his_.” Cole whispers. “And he wanted to see her grow, bloom, blossom, burst forth into this world and take it by storm, you can do it, you of all of them have it within you. You make me and all that we once stood for so proud. Mine, my precious one. All this time, just to meet and help make you. To love you. I am so fortunate.”

It’s the letter a father leaves his daughter, to warn her about bad boys and bad girls in her future, to save her money and not to be frivolous, to eat three meals a day, to cover her stomach when she sleeps, and to never leave her window open at night. And to remind her that no matter what happens, he will always love her – and be proud of her.

“Why won’t you give this to her?” Cole asks, muscle-spirit-flesh shifting under Bull’s hand.

“She isn’t ready for it, yet.”

Lavellan spends hours in any given day just staring at the walls, sitting right against a side of the wall, her face a foot or so from the stone, and examining an inch of paint like that one inch holds the secret to cancer in it. She still can’t make it a single step inside of Solas’ lab.

“Why are you the one to decide that?”

“Because she chose me to be.” Bull replies. Not in words, but in actions. His is the one eye between the three of the ones they share that she trusts with things like this. He’s flattered. But it is a heavy weight. “Because he isn’t the only one who loves her.”

-

“You cannot be wrong on this, Cassandra. On anything else you can be wrong, but not this.” Cullen paces and Cassandra is getting mildly dizzy watching him erratically move, hands going everywhere and nowhere at once, shaking his head like a crazed dog with an itch.

It is a disturbingly appropriate image. She dislikes it immensely.

“And I am not wrong. I believe that you can do this. You’re doing well – you just don’t think you are because you’re the one it’s happening to. I’ve _seen_ this, Cullen. I can sense it. I know that this is working. You are doing well. In fact you’re doing better than I could have possibly hoped.”

“Cassandra, it doesn’t matter how well I’m doing, I have to be _better_. I don’t care if this is – this is a personal record. It doesn’t mean anything if I can’t do my damn job.” Cullen throws a glare at her, before he quickly looks away.

“You are trying to talk yourself into taking it.” Cassandra narrows her eyes. “Don’t even lie to yourself. You just want an excuse, and you’re mad because I won’t give you one.”

“You put a hold on any lyrium orders that go through Skyhold.” Cullen snaps.

“I’ve been signing off on lyrium dispensation since the start. You suggested it.” She reminds him.

Patience is not her forte. Not in most things.

But in matters of faith and perseverance? She knows she can be as unmoving as the mountain their base is built on.

She unfolds her arms and plants herself directly in his path, forcing him to either run into her or stop and actually look at her.

He does the latter. Of course.

“Cullen.”

He clenches his jaw and glares at her. He’s had better days. His eyes are blood shot, he hasn’t shaved, and his hair is a mess.

“You can do this. You are leading the Inquisition perfectly fine. Better than anyone else can. You trusted me with this. So _listen to me_ when I tell you that _you do not need the lyrium_. You _are doing your job_. You can do your job and _do yourself some fucking good by getting off the lyrium for good_.”


	75. Chapter 75

As the policeman pulled back the sheet, she immediately knew who it was.

“Uncle.” She breathes, her hand automatically reaching out to touch – to close, to cradle, to shield, to protect. Her people, her responsibility.

She stops when she sees the ghastly green of her hand on his dead skin, tinting the marks of Elgar’nan a wrong and sickening shade of purple. Like a bruise. She swallows.

“How many more bodies were recovered?” She asks and she knows that no one in the room except the Iron Bull is actively looking at her. Her voice doesn’t sound at all. Her mouth moves but she cannot hear herself speak. But she knows she speaks because the man moves to lead her to the next body.

Lavellan does not know how she makes it through the rows upon rows of bone resting on steel. Artificial light shines so harsh overhead. She has never seen any of her clansmen in this kind of light before.

She is hit with the strange feeling of – _not right_. Not _belonging_.

In her floral printed dress with her pretty boots with the slight heel and her neat jacket and her light and dainty scarf she is _city_ instead of _earth_ and she longs for the clothes of her kin. The clothes she has in a trunk at Skyhold, hand sewn and patched over and careful and made just for her.

Her throat closes further and further and she does not know how she makes it through any of this.

Her mouth moves as she recites prayers, and out of her bag she pulls birch sticks and small seeds that she places in the hands of her fallen. When they have hands.

The sounds of others flicker around her, like lights that tease at the edge of her vision, but she cannot focus on those sounds. She allows them to flicker, flicker, flicker, never taking shape or form or color. Just movements, things passing through.

These are not all of the bodies of her clan.

But it is enough to hurt.

There is – there is a body -

Her entire _self_ closes. Snaps closed like a fly-trap, a mouse-trap, a snare, a noose, a cage. It is as if all the air in the world is gone, and her ears feel like they might pop.

There is nothing but silence in her as she approaches the last body. She moves, magnetized, knowing, _feeling – instantly – instinctively – eternally -_

She moves without moving, as if she blinks and like a series of drawings she is transported from one side of the room to the other.

Her hand raises and she pushes the police officer away from her, out of her path, away from the body, her body, his body, their body -

And the silence turns into a high pitched sound at the edge of her ears, that is not her, not anything, as if some sort of radar has gone off.

She unveils their face, and looks into her death.

The world tunnels in onto their face. Their marks. Their lips. Their eyelashes. Their ears. Their nose. Their chin. Their brow. Their hair. Their death.

There are no words for what she sees. All she knows is this -

This death will never end for as long as she continues to breathe.

-

His voice had never sounded so cold and Leliana would almost be impressed if she didn’t see the way Lavellan reacted to it.

No one disrespects the Inquisitor – makes her _hurt_ like that on the damned fucking throne of the Inquisition. Not in public eye. Not with everyone watching.

It would be one thing if he hurt her like that in private – she would be upset about it, of course, but to a lesser degree. Words exchanged in private are between the parties involved for the most part.

The problem arises with the fact that he undermines her image _in front of a damned crowd_.

Blackwall’s audacity would be amusing in almost any other situation, that glibness of tongue and – to be frank – balls to speak against someone with Lavellan’d degree of power when in her _debt_ , in her _home base_ , at her _mercy_ is truly impressive.

But Leliana has done too much to allow the Inquisition to take that kind of blow to the face.

“Don’t.” Josephine whispers.

“I _should_ have put a sniper there to shoot his brains out.” Leliana whispers back, stepping back into the hallway that leads to Josephine’s private office in front of the War Room. “Are _you_ okay?”

Josephine closes her eyes. “Yes.”

There was something there. Leliana wonders if that something continues to exist.

This is not the time to ask.

“His actions cannot go unpunished.” Leliana says, digging the heel of her boot into the stone. Sometimes she hates how sound carries in the castle. It’s good for spying but it’s _also good for spying_ which makes conversations she _wants_ private very difficult to have.

“That’s Lavellan’s purview. She’s his direct supervisor. Almost all of our consultants report directly to her.”

“And now he owes her both his life and his freedom.” Leliana clicks her tongue, hard. “And she won’t put him in his place like she ought to.”

“What _is_ his place? What else can you do to him?”

“That’s not a question you really want answered, Josie.” Leliana smiles a little. “And he _does_ need to be disciplined. We cannot have him doing that. It sets a precedent, one we’ve worked _very hard_ to avoid. But Lavellan won’t take action. She’s not – she’s not _leader_ material in that sense. Not formal leader material at least. Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“By the end of this she will be.” Leliana opens the door back into the main hall open, just a little. The crowd has thinned out somewhat, and from here she can see Lavellan, still sitting on the throne. A relic from times past, but useful for these kind of events. “I’ve seen how this goes. We have yet to reach the end of her growth. This is the beginning. And by the time the Inquisition is through with her, she’ll be a whole new beast for Thedas to deal with.”


	76. Chapter 76

The old photos made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed – and of what sort of changes were being brought into the world. She wonders if she’s fortunate or terribly unlucky to be in front row seats for most of them.

“I can’t believe you had time for this during the _Blight_.” Alistair says, shaking his head as Leliana flips through polaroids. Zevran laughs.

“I make the time.”

“Crows like to collect odd things.” Leliana remarks, pausing on a particularly good photograph of the dog stealing Morrigan’s underwear and burying it in a hole along with two bones and one of Surana’s ripped and torn to shreds jackets. “Where did you even get the film?”

“I’m very resourceful.”

“Why are you taking pictures of _us naked_?” Alistair’s eyebrows raise as he opens an entire box of polaroids. “These better not ever make it to the paparazzi, Zevran. I’m not joking. I mean – personally I don’t think I’d mind too much, but my council would probably try to have me deposed. No one’s supposed to know about that tattoo except for you guys and Surana.”

Leliana and Zevran laugh.

“I like looking at beautiful things.” Zevran says, “And I find myself constantly surrounded in beautiful people.”

“Flatterer.” Leliana says, pausing on a picture of Sten – now Arishok – sleeping. “Brave of you.”

“I could never get him to smile. Shame, he had such nice teeth.” Zevran rests his chin on his hand and sighs. “I miss our friends. Why can’t we all get together like this more often?”

“Because some of us have jobs.” Alistair replies. “And people who force us to do those jobs.”

“We aren’t all freelance contractors.” Leliana flicks Zevran’s cheek. “You both should be happy I even make time for you.”

“I’m the King of _Ferelden_.”

“And never forget _who put you on that throne_.” Zevran fake-whispers. “Speaking of jobs – either of you have anything for me? Things are rather slow, what with all the demons and lyrium and such running about causing general chaos and confusion.”

“I’ll speak with the Inquisitor. There’s always someone we need dealt with.” Leliana taps the edges of the polaroids on the table. “Which reminds me, Alistair, I think the Inquisitor will be calling an informal meeting with you soon.”

“I know.” Alistair scratches his cheek. “She texted me and has been trying to figure out when I’ll be free. I don’t know why she asks me, I mean – it’s not like I plan my own schedule.

“And here is a man who knows that his life is over. Such is fate. I hope that I never settle down into that sort of domestic idleness. There’s still so much for me to do in this world.”

“Alistair, I knew him well. He was such a bright boy. Shame.”

“Could you stop talking about me like I’m dead?”

“You’re a king and a husband, you might as well be at this point.”

-

Cullen somehow manages to find his phone among his many pockets while doing his best not to drop his coffee, his paperwork – Josephine’s paperwork, now that he’s finished his part of them, really –, his breakfast, and Cassandra’s donut.

It takes a little bit of maneuvering but he manages to get a look at his phone screen, and Dorian’s sent him a message. It’s two words and it’s four in the morning before Cullen has to go out and do a supply run which will take about all day given the weather and driving conditions.

Lavellan, herself, counts as a driving condition.

“You look like you could use a hand, Commander.”

Cullen startles and almost drops everything, but Solas manages to grab Cassandra’s donut and Cullen’s breakfast as Cullen somehow catches Josephine’s paperwork without spilling his coffee.

“Good morning, Solas. And thank you.” Cullen offers him a smile he hopes is polite. Solas looks him over and nods.

“A good morning to you as well. You’ve started the day off particularly busy.”

“The early bird supposedly gets the worm, but somehow I’m never early enough.” Cullen replies. “You’re up early as well.”

“That supposes that I _went_ to sleep in the first place.” Solas sighs. “Dorian’s been keeping me up.”

“Dorian?”

“He insists that he’s on the verge of a breakthrough. Vivienne got tired of dealing with him so she drugged him. We’re figuring out whether we should keep him under or if we should just move him somewhere quiet and far away from the labs while we get our own work done and perhaps catch some sleep.”

“Do you need help?”

“Kind of you to offer, but no. Your hands are full as it is. Where are you taking these? Allow me to help.”

“Josephine’s main office.” Cullen replies. “And thank you. Again.”

Solas nods and they begin the walk to Josephine’s in silence. Cullen isn’t quite sure where he stands with Solas, he’s certain that they must disagree on several points, but Solas is very civil and contained about his own thoughts. Cullen, himself, respects and appreciates all that Solas has done for the Inquisition, and for the Inquisitor herself.

“Dorian’s been up all night?”

“Yes.” Solas nods, “He feels that he’s found a breakthrough in uniting animas with objects. A better way than the current method. Vivienne and I disagree. Loudly. Towards the end of it he wasn’t even really doing anything. He was rambling.”

“Did he just fall asleep now?”

“Yes, at which point both Vivienne and I looked at each other and _ran_.”

“Dorian just texted me a moment ago.” Cullen shows the message to Solas, who raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what he means. Perhaps he meant to text one of you two?”

“Our names are hardly similar.”

“If he was as sleep deprived as you say, I doubt he was coherent enough to be picking names from his address book.”

“Point.” Solas hums. “Though I’m fairly sure you’re listed as _Southern Barbarian_ in his phone. Which is close enough to Solas. I don’t have a cellular phone, though. Just the work extension Josephine gave me.”

“I’m not sure if I’m offended or just tired.”

“I’m sure he meant it in an affectionate manner. You should see what he put in for Vivienne.”


	77. Chapter 77

“Most people are creatures of habit.” Lavellan says, walking around Blackwall’s room. With her strides, the room seems bigger and smaller at the same time. Six of her steps wide and ten deep. She somehow makes the short circuit look like a parade of its own.

Her hands loosely grip each other behind her back as she takes in his bland walls and the general state of _emptiness_ that he doesn’t know how to fill.

“You have a habit of being very, very morose.” She continues and Blackwall can’t help but snort. “Do you remember when I got the bog unicorn, and said it reminded me of you?”

“Yes.” He replies, because he’s still her soldier and no matter how – how _angry_ he is at her for denying him his freedom, even if his freedom was prison for life and an execution order – he still answers her like a soldier. Her soldier. His life is hers. Now and forever.

She’s both taken that for herself and allowed him to give it to her almost freely. Reluctantly freely.

“That used to be a horse, Blackwall.”

Every time they call him Blackwall, he’s pretty sure they mean something else.

He’s pretty sure that when Cassandra deigns to call him – and to call him by that name, she means _you lying fucking bastard_. When Solas calls him Blackwall he sounds like he means _parasitic urchin_. So on and so forth.

When Lavellan calls him Blackwall, though -

It’s not like she’s saying something else. She means _Blackwall_.

But it’s heavy, the way she says it.

It sounds like a punishment.

He will carry this name for the rest of his days, and hers. No matter what happens, she will hold that name and what he did over him like an anvil ready to drop at any moment. And he has to live with that. What his lying and his attempt at facing the truth did. He has to own that, live with it.

He’s not sure if she means it or not, the way she delivers the name. Maybe she does. Maybe this is where she shows that steel and dragon bone spine that she seems to always hide away for special occasions. The most dangerous of them.

Another thing to be ashamed of, he thinks.

“The bog unicorn was once a living, breathing, bleeding, _shitting_ horse.” She says, completing another circuit of walking around his room. “A horse that, by our estimations, probably rode into a  lot of battles, a war horse. The kind of horse you don’t fuck with, Blackwall. Because it’s been trained to run into danger and to face swords and arrows and fire and other horses. And then something terrible happened to it and it failed to die. Or succeeded in living, however you want to look at it.”

“Which way do you look at it?” He can’t help asking, he never did learn how to hold his fucking tongue when it counted.

She pauses and looks at him before continuing her walking.

“Neither. Both. A way that your mind hasn’t been grown to understand.” She shakes her head. “Regardless, the horse is alive. And it has rotted and been worn away by time, and dirt, and more bad things, and more violence of the natural kind. It looks terrible. It, honestly, looks like something that’s been thrown up and dragged through a landfill. And I love it. Do you know why?”

A trick question, because Blackwall’s first instinct – and the instinct of most other people who know her – would be to say _because you’re you_. The second instinct is _and because you’re you, you have odd taste_.

He’s not dumb enough to answer with either though, so he shakes his head.

She stops right in front of him, feet planted, arms behind her back, she could be any army drill sergeant about to lay down the worst punishment and revelation ever.

“Because at the end of the day, that horse did not give in to the corruption of the physical body and remained the war horse where it mattered. Blackwall, you were living as a wanderer, a so called recruiter. You looked like you hadn’t had a decent night sleep in who knows how long, your clothes – for a fighting shemlen – were in terrible condition, and your complexion wasn’t any better. But you fought. You volunteered. You said _let me, alone, stand with you, if no one else will_. And you did. You went with me against swords and arrows and bullets and grenades, and other _Wardens_. And now, I realize, something terrible has happened to you. And it failed to kill you. But at the same time, you have not succeeded in living. Because you, as most shemlen are – by no fault of your own –, are a creature of habits. And you are used to saying _you don’t deserve_ things.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the space between her feet and swallows, heavy, and waits for the finishing blow.

Lavellan breathes out, slowly, long and smooth.

“I’m not here to say that you deserve it. Or that you don’t. My answer would be, again, something that your mind wasn’t grown to understand. I’m here to tell you that regardless of whether you deserve something or not, _do you want to be someone who deserves those things_? And _why aren’t you_ that person?”

Blackwall looks up at her and her eyes just bore into his, she nods, a slow dip of her chin before she turns on her heel and walks right out the door, taking all the space and air and thoughts in his head with her.

He stares at the empty doorway for a long time after she’s gone before putting his head in his hands and sighing.

He’s fairly certain that he’s never come away from one of their talks feeling steady or calm. She has a way of just tossing things around and putting him on his head. Just when he thought things were settling for him – it’s easy to get used to a state of mind. Then she had to go and stir it all up again, throwing things in the air and out of place.

Maybe someday, if the world still exists, he’ll know if he’s thankful for that or not.


	78. Chapter 78

Bull wakes up to cold and magic and alertness that instantly puts his mind on edge, his body ready for danger. Bull wakes up, to the light of the streetlamps from the parking lot shining in through the gauzy motel curtains, illuminating the side of the face of a ghost he didn’t ever want to dream of.

She’s kneeling on the bed next to him, he can feel her weight, her _presence_ , her _body_ against his side, knees just brushing the underside of the bicep of his out flung right arm. Her face is shadowed, her hair falling to cut the light off. He can only catch glimpses from the light from the window, getting momentarily brighter with the flickering on-off-on of one of the broken streetlights.

She’s leaning over him, her eyes on his, and the fingertips of her hand cold against his cheek as she brushes his skin with her fingers.

He looks at her and his heart pounds, big and heavy and warm blooded in his chest.

She traces his face with her fingertips, his scars, the wrinkles that are beginning to really settle in, the line of his nose, his lips – lingering on the mess of his left eye. She leans in and kisses him. Cold and heavy, the eye, the cheeks, brushes of lips on skin and stubble as she traces her way down to the corners of his mouth, and one long and tired touch to his bottom lip.

She sits back on her heels, hand resting against the side of his throat. Cold. Unreal and real.

Bull watches. She watches. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound except the rest of the world, outside of them. Cars on the interstate. Occupants in the rooms above them and to the sides. The whirring of the air conditioning unit.

Words don’t flow between them.

She cups his pulse.

“ _Ir abelas_. I’m sorry.” Her ghost says. “I was a heavy burden.”

Her ghost does not speak with the careful accent of the Free Marches she worked so hard to keep during the Inquisition. It is purely Dalish, not like his Dalish-Dalish – she’s a different kind of Dalish – but of the Dalish found in the Exalted Plains and the Dales and the lower parts of the Free Marches.

Words try to flow from him to her. Too many at once. All of them, he holds back.

Don’t leave me. Don’t go where I can’t follow you and look after you. Don’t pull that shit on me again. I love you. I can’t lose another piece of my heart like this. Don’t hurt me. You’re going to fucking kill me. _Stay_.

Somewhere, he knew she wasn’t dead.

As dumb and pathetic as it sounds, Bull is certain that if she died he would know. He would feel it. Somewhere. His eye, his hands, his heart, his bones, his lungs, his guts, his skin. Somewhere.

Girls like this don’t die without taking a significant portion of the world down with them.

He doesn’t say any of those things, because he’s not a fucking fool. Because he opened his eyes and looked at her and she let him, and she had been looking at him when he was unaware, and even now that he is. Because he is still the Iron Bull who has watched her through her highest and most of her lowest points. Because he has always been trained to read people and understand their possibilities, all their permutations and combinations. So he doesn’t say any of the things that come to mind, the things he never imagined saying to her – didn’t have the words for, until now – because he did not imagine seeing her again, like this – ever.

Because he would say those things and she would promise, _No, I won’t leave you. I won’t go anywhere without you again. I won’t do it. I will stay. I won’t hurt you again._

She would say it, and he would know that she is lying for him – to him – and she would know and they would both be disappointed.

So instead, he says – simply -

“Yes. You are.” And he raises his right arm to curl around her waist and bring her down to him – his mouth to her temple, her breath against his jugular – snakes and oxes – and closes his eye.

Then, quietly, gently -

“Are you haunting me?”

It is not a joke.

“The Lavellan you love is dead. Just as Hissrad is dead.” The ghost says to his skin. “I am what was once her, as you are what was once Hissrad – but not. Because we are not them, and we never have been. We are, as always, what we are, now. What am I, then, the Iron Bull?”

He slides his hand up her back, feeling the bumps of her spine, skimming over places that are rib and shoulder blade, and he knows the lines of her tattoos – like they’re alive and pressing against the pads of his fingers – and his hand rests at the back of her neck, fingers spanning either side, the soft secret places behind the ears, her hair falling over his skin. Long, a curtain that blocks the light.

And he considers her. Him. Them. Everything that they are, and everything they have the possibility to be.

Unshaped stone.

Something inside.

“Kadan.” He promises her, again. Because, yes. He feels the shape of her, and the ghost under his hand, breathing over his pulse, has the makings of what he knows will become, again, part of the center of his being. He promises her this, again, this place her past self once held.

She kisses his throat, once, twice, the kisses of snakes, silky and smooth, snakes that have just pushed out of their shells.

“ _Vhenan_.” She says and it doesn’t mean the same thing because her language doesn’t have a word for it, and this is the closest she can offer him.

He understands. The words flow.


	79. Chapter 79

Bull watches, a little amused and a little tired, as Lavellan storms through the long hallway of half-walled cubicles and interns, throwing open the doors to Josephine’s public office – the one that isn’t in the castle, where she does most of her conferences and status updates with her staff – and allows them to dramatically fall shut behind her.

Before she came through, the interns and employees heard her coming, and one by one slowly half-stood up so their heads poked up over their cubicle walls. As she passed, all the interns had quickly sat back down in their seats to avoid attracting her attention, and as she passed, they slowly inched back up again.

It’s like if a whack-a-mole machine had sex with the wave.

You’d think they’d be used to the Inquisitor of Thedas coming through like a miniature hurricane. They’ve seen stranger.

Then again, Lavellan tends to save the purest waves of her wrath and her rawest tides for a select handful.

Himself, Cole, Dorian, Solas.

In that order.

Then as one, from the end closest to the doors, to the end where Bull’s leaning against the wall, they turn and whisper to each other, until finally the woman in the cubicle closest to Bull leans as far as she can and whispers to him, eyes flicking back over her shoulder towards the door -

“And that was?”

Bull hums, considers lying, considers saying nothing, then considers how insidious idle minds and gossip can be -

“You happen to remember the last Inquisitor?”

The woman looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“We are currently living during the leadership of the current one.”

“Well. Let’s just say that the Chant isn’t the only place where elves have been missing from.”

The woman looks at him, hard, and if Bull remembers right, she’s one of Leliana’s people who transferred to admin due to personnel shortage. Then she turns and shares it among her block and it quickly passes through them in a wave.

Office intrigue.

-

“But wouldn’t it be better – all of us, united under one banner? Knowing each other, erasing our differences, everything known and shared, and united? Isn’t that what we’re working so _hard for_? Don’t you want everyone to know who you are and know that what you stand for is exactly the same as what they want?”

She reaches out and runs the pad of her thumb over the seam of Leliana’s lips. A gentle and dangerous touch, like kissing a snake winding around your face. Her mouth eases into a smile, barely there, the other side of the moon.

“I am _unknowable_.” Lavellan decrees, leaning close and looking idolatrous and dangerous. Leliana, a few years younger and a few steps away from gold. 

Leliana opens her mouth to protest – everyone is knowable. _Everyone_. You can find out everything about anyone, especially in this day and age of internet and documentation. If you so much as send someone a smiling poop emoji, there’s someone who can find out.

Lavellan hushes her, hand withdrawing.

“I do not want to be known. Our differences come between us. But our differences create us. Imagine a world without bodies, with no color, no race, no religion, no creed, no flag, no nations. Imagine that world – and the homologous mass that arises with it. All of it, blending into one another. A gray world with no shades. Our boundaries define us, for better and for worse. And I would have those boundaries, Leliana. This boundary of skin and bone and breath and race and religion that keeps you from me, and me from you. It is surpass able by our own wills, and yet we remain ourselves. That is what I fight to protect.”

“I know you.” Leliana says. “I have seen others like you. I have watched them grow. I have watched them change the world and be changed by it. Scorned by the people they saved, turned against by the people who they swore to protect. I know your kind.”

“Do you?” Lavellan says, and her face _is_ the other side of the moon. Unfamiliar craters, revealing themselves, ice and shadows and white and gray and sepia. “You do not. And you never will. That’s fine. You do not need to know me, not entirely. Unity is at once an illusion and a promise. Parts of it are good, parts are bad. Everything is bad for you, nothing is bad for you. It’s good that you love your God, but remember that not everyone has to. And you cannot make them.  That is not peace. That is not unity. That is blood. And that is war.”

-

“Am I selfish, do you think?” Dorian asks Varric, both of them sitting on a piece of marble someone paid a stupid amount for when they could’ve just, you know. Bought some nice lawn chairs or something. Varric watches the people going around in their nice clothes and he catches a glimpse of Lavellan in her smart – if not particularly flattering – military dress uniform as she slips among people. The only elf here that no one would dare touch for fear of it actually going to court. The only elf _woman_ here who’s _safe_.

“I think, but I don’t often think about how selfish people are. You know what they say about pointing fingers.” Varric replies, because he’s pretty selfish too. Most everyone he knows is. Except her. And Cole. And a small handful of other, stupidly _good_ people. They have their flaws. Selfishness just isn’t a major one.

“I want to take her away from here.” Dorian says. “I don’t even care what that means for us, I just want to grab her and run. Terrible of me, I know. But did you see the way she looked a few seconds ago, when she watched those people with the Commander?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t rip their hands off their arms for them.” Varric admits.

Personal space, despite what it may seem to those who don’t know her, is a big thing for Lavellan.

She may sometimes be unaware of how much personal space you need, but once she knows she’ll never trespass on it unless invited.

And no matter how oblivious to personal space she is – she would never, ever lay hands on someone without adequate reason.

Either saving their life or ending it, being the main two.

“I don’t like this place for her. I mean, I grew up in this.” Dorian waves a hand. “I know this. This is familiar to me. If you’d just change the skin tone of most of the people here and trade out Orlesian gold and blue for Tevinter black and yellow it’d be like I was at a Friday night fund raiser. And everyone else is sort of used to this to a degree. Even if Sera only knows it from crashing so many things like this.”

“And Cole fits in wherever he goes.”

“But then there’s her, and this place and everything it stands for. I imagine what it would be like if the Qunari took over Minrathous and I had to go back and save their Arishok’s life while standing in the place that once was my ancestor’s home and I want to punch something and set it on fire and maybe throw it onto some electrified tracks.”

“We all just want to do what’s best for the people we love.” Varric imagines it. If he had know what would happen. What would he have done?

“I want it to stop hurting for her.” Dorian says, standing up and rubbing a hand over his face. “And I swore nothing more than two glasses tonight, but I don’t know. I don’t know how she’s doing this. Maybe I don’t want to know. I just want it to be over so we can all look back at this and be properly disgusted without having to be polite about it.”


	80. Chapter 80

A story for you, a story that you know because it is a story everyone knows -

_What?_

There was once a boy. In the beginning the boy wanted a family. And because he was good and because he was blessed, he was given one. But it was not the kind he wanted. He loved his family until he thought he saw something different, something wrong. The boy asked questions of the Father.

_What is -_

The Father was stern, strict – entrenched in the old ways. The Father did not like these questions. How ungrateful this boy is, to ask questions of the hand that feeds. The hand that gives. The hand that takes.

_Wait, Cole what are you – how did you find me -_

Hurt and burned by the sun, the boy went to the sea to the Mother, the arms that hold, the arms that shelter, the arms that surrender. Soft and yielding, too yeilding. Kind but too kind. Too much tolerance. She allows the sun to burn him, and so he turns away and looks at his siblings who are no longer siblings. He sees all the flaws and the holes and he looks down at the people and realizes he looks down, down, down – what have I done?

 _Cole, you don’t understand_.

And he does not understand what path has led him here. This is not what he had intended, not what he had wanted. So he looks upon them and their suffering and he sees a course of action, the only logical course of action.

_Please, tell me where you are. Let me explain to you -_

There was once a girl.

_Cole._

There was once a girl. In the beginning the girl wanted to go home. But because she was good and because she was blessed, she couldn’t. So she made a new one and it wasn’t the kind she wanted or needed. She loved them even when she saw what went wrong she loved them anyway. And she asked questions and found no answers.

_Cole, don’t._

The one she loved, who gave her the home hid the answers until it was too late. Because he looked down, down, down at her – and he saw without seeing. He did not understand. He is the hand that gives. He is the hand that takes. _He burned her_.

_Cole -_

Because he thought he knew best, he hid it from her until it was too late and said that this was for the best without giving her a choice. Just like all those years before when he didn’t give them a choice. He acted. Without regard to the consequences. He did and he destroyed and he brought down ruin upon them all. She didn’t ask for this.

_Cole, don’t do this, Cole where are you?_

She didn’t want this, she didn’t want you. She wanted to go home. But you took that from her, you took everything from her. The girl just wanted to live and she can never live again, not ever, you’ve taken it all from her. All paths forward, all paths going back, all of them scream your name and she has never been deaf because she is _good and she is blessed_ -

S -

There  once was a boy who wanted a family and destroyed the world for it. He thought he was doing the right thing. His family was wrong, and he was right, and he would do what he knew to be best regardless of it all. And what happened afterwards could only be anyone else’s fault.

T -

And he slept and the world fell and he woke and hated what he saw even if it is what he brought about and there once was a girl who wanted to go home but he had taken her home and he had directed her to make a new one but he broke that one, too. Kind. Soft. _Surrender_. The world was wrong and she would fix it even if it destroyed her and it did and what happened afterwards was always considered her fault.

_O -_

A mistake, an aberration, unwanted abomination – forever in history that is her because of you. _You did this, you did this you and your pride and you ruined her and she was all good things and now she is not and is this what you wanted?_ Is this what you wanted to protect? Why would you extinguish all the stars in the sky and then mourn the passing of the constellations and threaten to burn the world inside out just to bring light back to the empty night? Why would you do that? How could you?

_P!_

There once was a boy who wanted a family. He threw it away. He didn’t really want a family, after all. Not enough to protect it. Not enough to sacrifice for it.

_Cole, why are you doing this? This is – this is hardly your purpose._

Compassion twists to scorn so easily.

_Does she?_

No. You hurt her, but no. I do. I do, because she won’t. You could have made it so much better. But you turned your face away. You chose to embrace the sun.

_I don’t understand._

I know you don’t. We all do. I don’t think you ever will.

-

“Guess what’s the latest thing the Inquisitor of Thedas is enamored with. Go ahead, guess. You’ll never get it. Not once in a million years, assuming we have that long, considering the giant hole in the sky and red lyrium and such.” Dorian says, inviting himself to a seat next to Cullen’s desk. He carefully nudges a stack of papers that was threatening to slide off back in place.

It actually just slides all over the desk and Cullen just sighs a little, the swift movement of his hand as he writes clearing a small little space for him. This is a man who’s been beaten into submission by paperwork. He doesn’t even attempt to fix it. He just keeps on writing and lets the pen move the paper for him.

Dorian takes pity on him and sweeps them into his own arms and starts arranging them.

“Guess.” Dorian repeats.

Cullen lets out another little sigh.

“You can’t guess, can you?”

“I can. I don’t want to. But I can.” Cullen replies.

“No. You would never get it right.”

“I would. I wish I wouldn’t. But I would.”

“Fine then, if you’re so confident. Tell me. What’s struck her fancy this time?”

Cullen closes his eyes, his pen pauses, before he slowly breathes out and calmly answers, “Sex toys.”

Dorian gasps. “ _Commander!”_

Cullen’s free hand reaches into one of the boxes underneath his desk and pulls out a bright rainbow colored monstrosity and deposits it on the desk towards Dorian.

“I don’t know if I’m impressed, scandalized, amused, or horrified right now.” Dorian pokes it with his finger.

“She’s giving them out as part of a health education package.” Cullen says. “It was either the rainbow one or the bright glow in the dark neon pink one.”

“Where was I when this was happening?”

Cullen reaches back under his desk and pulls out a paper back and puts it next to the dildo.

Dorian snatches it and looks inside and starts cackling. “I love her.”

“Do you want them?” Cullen asks. “I feel like these things might be something you’d appreciate more than me.”

“Probably. If anything I could use them to annoy people.” Dorian replies. “And I’d never say  no to free supplies. Are you quite certain you wouldn’t need them, our ever popular Commander?”

“Do you even see my office? It’s a miracle I can even go outside some days.” Cullen snorts. “I’ve hardly the free time for the sexcapades people make up for me.”

“Sexcapades. The language. Today just keeps getting better and better.”

“You want it to get even more – well. _More_?” Cullen asks, eyebrow raising as he flips one of the papers over to continue writing on the other side.

“Tell.” Dorian demands.

“Go find the Iron Bull and see what she got him. I dare you. You may actually shit yourself. I hope you wore brown pants.”


	81. Chapter 81

“Do you know what the root of the word _patience_ is?” Solas asks as she traces runes on thin paper, eyes focused past the gentle glow of the drawing table.

“No. In what language?” She asks, fingers steady as she recreates lines that she can only guess the meanings of. Once runes were like breathing. Instinct.

The world has lost so much.

Gained a lot, but lost more.

“ _Patiens_ , derived from _patior_.”

“ _Passio_.” She replies. “The suffering of.”

“ _Patior_. I suffer. I endure. I submit.” He clarifies.

“The plight of the elves given root in the shemlen tongue.” She muses, leaning back and carefully turning the paper so she wont smudge her ink. “That’s ironic. And somehow beautiful.”

“As most ironic things are,” He agrees, helping her turn the papers together. She smiles. “Do you know why that is the root of the word patience?”

“Why?”

“Because to suffer has meaning.” He tells her. “All suffering means something. There is a reason to all of it. A cause. An end. It is worth something.”

“Like money paid?” She frowns as she bends  down to return to her tracing.

“A somewhat crude metaphor, but yes. Like money paid, experiences of suffering are paid for events to happen.”

Her hand flickers and she carefully pauses, pen shaking a little as she concentrates on forcing the Anchor to calm. He watches the lines of her throat and jaw tense. Pain? Frustration? Anger? Fear? Nerves?

She is fading. The time she has left is small compared to the time he has. Smaller, as it’s whittled away with continued use of the Anchor. The more she uses it, the larger – hungrier – it becomes. He hopes he can keep her alive long enough for her to seal the rift. At least that long.

“You must go through these trials in order to find the end.” He continues, as she pushes away from the table, forcing her hand to release the pen as her palm spasms. She grips her wrist and pushes her hand down onto her leg and breathes, whispering mantras for focus.

“That is a nice concept.” She says, eyes closing as she breathes. Measured and quick. She opens her eyes and looks at him, hands claws. “But it is not one I can truly believe in.”

He raises an eyebrow because she of all people?

So much hope. So much faith.

“It is a nice concept. I would like to believe it. That suffering is something with meaning. I would like that very much. But that is not so. Not all the time. There is some pain that has no rhyme or reason. Why must our people be slaves, second class citizens? Why must we be erased from history, from the here and now, from the future? Why must mages by hurt and abused? Why must templars destroy themselves for their own faith? Why does the Blight exist? I see no reason for this sort of suffering. No grand scheme. There is only the pain we bring to ourselves. Consequences. Chance. Misfortune. Why must I carry the Anchor? Why must I be the face of Andraste when I do not believe or love the shemlen Maker? Why must I give and others take?”

She shakes her head as the Anchor returns to dormancy. She flexes her hand and breathes a long sigh of relief.

“Sometimes suffering is just suffering.”

-

“Morning, sunshine. Up and at’m.” Krem makes his way around the various piles of _things_ and laughs as the lump on the bed curls up into a smaller ball. He clears a space on the floor and puts the tray down before sitting on the bed and shaking her. “I said good morning, your worship.”

The lump kicks him.

“That’s not nice. I brought you breakfast.”

Lavellan sits up, arms flung out making the sheets make a soft _poof_ sound. Her eyes are still closed and her hair looks like some things nested in it and she opens her mouth.

Krem reaches down towards the tray and uses the fork to spear an apple slice and puts it in her mouth.

“If you were anyone else I’d call you a spoiled brat.” He says as she chews, quietly swaying back and forth as she hums. “But you’re you. It’s unfair if I think about it. So I don’t. Rough night?”

Lavellan swallows. Sniffles. Yawns.

Then opens her mouth again.

Krem puts the tray in his lap and cuts a piece of sausage and gives it to her. It’s like feeding a baby bird that glows in the dark.

“Dorian keeps insisting he has a break through.” Lavellan mumbles somewhere between finishing half her scrambled egg – singular – and a fourth of her fruit pieces. Krem rips a piece of toast and tries to give it to her. She makes a discontented noise and refuses to open her mouth. Krem puts the toast down and lets the fork hover over various things until she starts humming.

He doesn’t know how she knows what the fork is over. Her eyes are closed.

Magic or something. Or it’s an elven thing.

Or both.

“But he doesn’t.” Krem guesses.

“He just hasn’t slept properly in a week and now he won’t let anyone else sleep properly either.” Lavellan whines. “And now Cassandra is going to be upset because I’m always yawning but it’s not at her it’s because I’m tired and I haven’t slept in _ages_.”

Krem pats what he hopes is her knee.

He holds out a glass of orange juice for her.

Lavellan takes it, eyes still closed, and sighs.

“I don’t even know why he’s researching this.” Lavellan says. “Why does he need to know what smells best to bears? We kill most of the bears we see. Which is terrible and bad wild life conservation practice.”

“Maybe he’s bored. You should take him  out somewhere. Air him out and run him through his paces.”

Lavellan laughs. “You make him sound like a horse.”

“He can be finicky like one. You ever see him get something stuck in his shoe? The resemblance is uncanny.”

Lavellan laughs again, sips her orange juice, and opens her eyes. She blinks at him, sleepy and dazed.

“Good morning, Krem. Have I told you that you’re my favorite Charger recently?”

“Not since yesterday morning, your worship. But it’s always good to hear.”


	82. Chapter 82

He has tried to find her. Everywhere. Glimpses of her, in dreams. He cannot. And he doesn’t want to think about what that may mean. There must be some sort of beauty in this situation.

Entire millennium spent alone, with himself, searching for higher truths and higher virtues contemplating what the eye cannot see, and this mayfly’s span of a lifetime the current children of the People consider _life_ he is trapped searching for a single clue as to where she’s gone.

When she is first revealed, publicly, to be missing, he is doubtful. He considers it a ruse that the Inquisition – or the remains of it – placed out to trick its enemies. Her enemies.

But his spies reported no such trick. And the spies of others found no evidence to support his belief.

And then he thought that she had perhaps just struck out on her own.

But in this age of computers, knowledge, and instantaneous information – he is left in the dark and blind and ignorant of her. She is nowhere.

First she is everywhere, the name in every news clip, the image in every tabloid and news rag there is. Her identity is spilled out for everyone to pick over, a carcass that isn’t. And he can only watch and observe because this is the life she has now.

But then it wasn’t.

He waited and he did not mourn because people do not disappear. They either are or they are _not_.

And of course, he would be arrogant enough to think that he would know if she was _not_.

He never learns.

(Old dogs and new tricks. Or so the saying goes.)

Almost a year passes and he can’t find her. His spirits and his spies, elves and ghosts alike – she is gone. Vanished. Declared dead. And Solas feels everything inside him rebel at the thought. He was – he was.

Solas cannot accurately describe in any word or image how _relieved_ he was that she did not die from the Anchor.

(He took it, and she had watched him take it, and  he could not look her in the eye and he left her and hoped that she would not die but he knows that she should have. He was not careful. He was not kind. He was not professional. He was not safe.)

He did not kill her.

But perhaps he did. Even though she lived, she would be weak after. Perhaps she left to die.

(Cats and dogs, underneath the porches of their master’s homes, or far, away and yet at arm’s distance. Wanting to be close and yet alone in the private and intimate moment of the last breath.)

He cannot find her in dreams, in wakefulness. She has left him as he has left her.

(He used to go to her in dreams. She would yell at him, scream at him, refuse him and attack him. Sometimes it was she who was the wolf. It hurt. He was proud. _My girl. My da’len. My da’fen.)_

Solas finds himself, often, sitting in front of the eluvian in one of his oldest temples. A place of the acolytes, where the newly initiated, the favorites, would be kept in training. The young would train here, be educated and immersed in their new lives here. And the old, the ones who had done their duty, would be laid to rest here. They would spend their days here, teaching, or resting, or relaxing – in comfort – until they were ready for sleep.

He sits here and he gazes into the mirror and scries for her. His little wolf. He searches for her mana, traces of it. Glimpses of the face he knows as he’s come to know Mythal’s, June’s, Sylaise’s, Ghilan’ain’s -

His own.

And there is nothing.

He does not find her, and he is not foolish or brash enough to go to the memorial they have made for her. So he makes his own. In this place, where he was once a false god, he makes a place for the one who should have always been here. If she had been willing, he would have brought her to his side. Instantly. She would not have died alone or in pain. He would not have allowed it.

Solas brings together the bones of the dead that have her shapes. Endless halla and stag horns, carefully interlocked. The skulls and wings of birds. The bones of a bear. A single claw from a dragon. It is careful and dedicated work. Solas probably spends more time on it than he should. Layer by layer, he carefully pads it with moss, taking his time in encouraging it to attach to the bone and stones he arranges. A living monument, as it should be.

A bed of bone and moss, a place for her soul to sleep.

He places the skull of a wolf at the foot. To guard her, always.

He plants four birch trees. One at every cardinal direction.

There is truth in superstition.

Solas stands in the sunlight of this half-ruined sanctuary and looks upon the place he has made for her and is -

“Ar lath ma, da’len.” He whispers, weaving wards between the trees. “Sleep. Dream the eternal dream. It is and always was yours.”

-

She’s been contemplating the shivering of the leaves for over an hour. The doctors don’t have the balls to tell her to come inside and neither do the nurses. So that’s why Blackwall’s out here.

He can’t even see her shivering, despite the fact that she’s really only wearing the hospital gown.

Blackwall stands a few feet behind her, and her IV drip swings a little in the breeze. She turns a little towards him, and he sees her hair slip onto her face.

If he were Dorian, he would give her his jacket, put his arms around her and talk to her as he physically moves her inside. If he were Sera, he would hug her from behind, face against her neck, and start swearing. If he were Cullen, he would put his jacket around her and sit with her. If he were Cassandra, he would sit close and wait. If he were the Iron Bull he would pick her up and hold her.

He is none of them. He is Blackwall.

He is her prisoner, her man. Her soldier. His life is hers.

There is distance between them.

So he stands behind her and is silent except for his initial, “My lady”, and watches her hair and her gown and her IV bag move.

The bandages look clean from here.

Considering that both Orlais and Ferelden currently hate the Inquisition, and the Inquisitor’s guts – it’s amazing that both the King and Queen jumped at the chance to take care of the Inquisitor in her time of need. He’s pretty sure that King Theirin was ready to go to war for the privilege to treat her in Ferelden.

“Come.” She says.

So he goes.

And he stands next to her and she watches the leaves continue to shiver in the sunset.

“Are you cold?” He asks.

“Always. Except for where there burns, within me, an undying fire.” She says. “Do you remember when I asked you about your Maker?”

Which time, he doesn’t ask.

“Do you think he’s still listening?” She asks. “What love do you owe him?”

“None.” He answers. “I don’t know.”

Lavellan curls her free hand in her lap, slowly, gently.

“None is a good answer.” She says. “I should have asked sooner. This would have hurt less.”


	83. Chapter 83

“Love him.” She whispers. “I did not love him _enough_.”

Dorian glances at her out of the corner of  his eye and doesn’t know if he wants to know who she means by _him_.

Lavellan’s face is pained and peaceful as she stares into the sky. The kind of pained and peaceful Dorian would have given anything to see over the past year or so.

So as much as it hurts to see her like this, he’ll take it. In an instant.

This is much better than before.

“I was always told to _love him_. Appreciate him. As the vine loves the tree, the leaf the sun, the sand the waves, and the stars the sky – _love him_. And I thought I did. Because I loved myself. And he is me. We are the same face. The light and dark sides of the moon.” Lavellan reaches up and points at the faint image of the moon in the morning sky, just starting to fade as the starts to tint the blue of the sky. Dorian follows her finger.

“It was I who thought that they did not understand. They could never understand how much I love him.”

She never uses the past tense with him. This other face of hers. Dorian wonders if he will ever have something like that.

“How could they? Has their hand ever spoken to them? Has their ankle ever voiced the secret opinion you try to avoid whenever you look into a mirror? Has one of their ears ever started laughing at something you said? Has their rib cage ever held a conversation with them? No. But mine did. Every day for over twenty years, my face and I – _my face and I_   - “

Lavellan stops, and allows her hand to fall away from the moon.

“Mahanon and I.” She whispers. “Do you love your hands? Your tongue? Your teeth and your brows? Do you love your hip bone or your lungs? Your spleen, your liver, you large and small intestines?”

Lavellan swallows and tilts her head back to accept the sun.

“It was I who did not understand. I see this, now, Dorian. Now that I am half blind and half dead. They were right. I did not love him _enough_. How could I have ever loved him enough?”

“No.” Dorian protests. Because he’s seen the terrible and awful and astounding things love can be. He’s seen the beautiful and amazing and terrifying miracles love can pull out of its ass. He’s seen the kind of fires love can start and put out.

Lavellan has that kind of love in spades. An embarrassing and shameful amount, when he compares himself to her. She’s nothing but love in all of its many, many dangerous faces.

“No. Do you even hear yourself? You haven’t heard the way you speak about him. People would kill to have that. Most people will never have anything like that in their entire lives. That’s the kind of love that only comes around in fantasies and bad novels and the extremely rare and perfectly written stage play. Every time you even let yourself think about him, you get this look on your face. You couldn’t have loved him _more_.”

She looks at him.

“Then why did I ever leave him?”

-

“This is my dog.” Lavellan declares.

“That isn’t a dog.” Varric turns to Cassandra. “You agree with me on this, right? I mean. You have to agree with me on this. That isn’t a dog.”

“That isn’t a dog.” Cassandra verifies, arms crossed as her grip on her cell phone gradually gets more and more dangerous. “It is not a dog, and even if it was, it is _not your dog_.”

“She is a dog.” Lavellan repeats, speaking over Cassandra’s ground out protests of _that is not a dog_ , Varric’s incredulous _how is that a dog?_ , and turns to the Iron Bull, and smiles. “She is a very good dog. I would very much like to show her Skyhold. I think she would like Skyhold. Maybe she would choose Skyhold to be her home for a while.”

Both Varric and Cassandra shoot Bull looks.

Bull scratches a dry patch on his elbow and considers the situation.

“Well. Wolves are kind of the ancestors of dogs before they got domesticated.” Bull muses. “And let’s face it, I don’t think there’s anything _domesticated_ that’s gonna be able to keep up with the boss when she’s doing her thing.”

Cassandra tries to heel-stomp Bull’s foot.

Bull dodges.

“Wolves aren’t pets.” Bull says to Lavellan.

“Of course not.” Lavellan says. “But this is _my_ wolf. We picked each other and everything. I mean, eventually I’m sure she’ll want to go on her way. But it’s winter and something about very large storms this season and I always feel bad because it’s so hard to hunt in the winter and what if she’s pregnant, Bull? I mean. I can’t tell for sure right now, but she might be and also she likes me.”

The wolf licks her chops, and then lies down with a sharp bark.

“I can’t believe this. I could write this as fanfiction and I’d get flames for being too _OOC_.” Varric declares, pulling out his phone. “That means I’ve got to do it. And take pictures. Everyone would say it’s really good photoshop but _it’s real_.”

“No.” Cassandra says as Lavellan wraps her arms around the wolf and laughs into the wolf’s fur.

“You can come to Skyhold!” Lavellan says as the wolf tries to gnaw on Lavellan’s handbag. “I’m so excited!”

“No. Is anyone listening to me? _No_.”

“This.” Bull lays a hand on her shoulder -

“Brave.” Varric mutters, phone making rapid camera shutter sounds as he circles Lavellan and the wolf. The wolf bares her teeth at him. “Shit.”

“This,” Bull continues as Cassandra gapes at the spectacle unfolding in front of them. “Is way out of your hands.”

-

“Thanks, Boss. I’ll think of you whenever I use it.” Bull says, reaching over and ruffling Lavellan’s hair.

Krem looks like he’s either going to laugh so hard he breaks something, break someone, or throw up. Maybe all three at once.

“Hm. I’d rather you didn’t. You’d get distracted. And I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to whoever you’re with at the time.” Lavellan says.

“I’m a good multi-tasker. Sometimes I think about my taxes when I’m killing things.” Bull replies, pulling out a strip of condoms from the bag. “Where’d you get all this stuff, again?”

“Places.” Lavellan says, and it sounds ominous. It shouldn’t. Lavellan turns to Krem. “I wanted to get you some, too. But I don’t want to be invasive about asking about your parts so I’m just going to come fetch you when the bulk shipment I ordered came and you can pick the ones you like best and you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“Oh god.” Krem turns to Sera. “Is this happening? Is this happening, _right now_?”

Sera is busy fondling the giant dildo Bull pulled out of the bag earlier and laughing about it.

“It’s got _wings_.” Sera is actually crying with laughter right now. “Also where’s mine?”

“I ran out.” Lavellan says. “And none of them made me think of you. I didn’t want to get you one you wouldn’t like.”

“I cannot believe this is happening. I need to get out of this place. There’s something wrong about this place. You people.” Krem continues.

“There’s a hole in the sky.” Lavellan makes a circular motion with her finger towards the ceiling. “And red lyrium in the ground.”

“There’s gonna be a hole somewhere.” Sera makes a gesture. “And something in that hole.”

Bull laughs as he continues to rummage through the bag. “You got all the best stuff. Remind me to thank your supplier.”

“I would very much like for you to be safe when you do things you like.” Lavellan pats Bull’s arm. “Safety is very important. Also moderation, but mostly safety. I care about you.”

“She’s a sweetheart.” Flissa says, “She’s started paying for everyone’s birth control out of her own pocket. It’s amazing. Almost a century of debating over health care and no one can get shit done. Someone tells the Inquisitor about birth control pills and IUD’s and _bam_ , suddenly all of the Inquisition can just get them whenever they need. Is she legal to run for office?”


	84. Chapter 84

“What are you doing?” Dorian opens the door to Cullen’s office, taking the scenic route back to the main library because there’s a _scene_ unfolding in the lower courtyard, and finds Lavellan and Cole and what looks like an entire craft supply store’s stock of anything _colorful_ scattered on the man’s usually pristine and immaculate floor. “What’s happening? Why does it look like a flock of canaries violently exploded all over your floor? Don’t you have actual paper work that should be making a mess?”

Cullen grunts, eyes fixed on his computer screen as he rapidly and forcefully types something out. Dorian pities the man’s keyboard.

Cullen’s has terrifying finger strength.

“We are making a sign.” Lavellan and Cole answer, showing an amazing amount of focus as the cut shapes out of paper. “To welcome Josephine back from her vacation.”

“She should never leave.” Cullen says. “She should never leave and put someone as incompetent as that aide in charge in her place. Ever. I won’t stand for it.”

“You’re just mad because you’ve basically taken half her job.” Dorian points out. “Because the aide was incompetent.”

“Yes. Exactly. I am very frustrated. I didn’t know it was possible for me to sleep, go outside, exercise, and stand up less than I already do.” Cullen picks up and drops his phone back onto the receiver as soon as it starts ringing.

“That seems unprofessional.”

“That’s her temp.” Cullen says. “And I’ve told that man at least two dozen times in the past two days that if he needs something he’ll come over here and ask me in person because I don’t have time to do both our jobs _and_ answer his inane questions at the same time.”

“We’re making her a sign. So she won’t leave.” Lavellan says, “Ever, ever, ever.”

“That’s one damn impressive sign if it’s going to do that. Do promise there’s no blood magic involved.” Dorian muses as he steps around the plastic bags of glitter, sequins, scrap-book decorations, paper, ribbon, and – other things.

“Of course not.” Cole says, holding a piece of paper up to his nose and staring at it with wide eyes. “The paper cut wasn’t on purpose.”

“Why are you doing this in Cullen’s office?”

“Because it’s meant to be a surprise, Dorian.” Lavellan says. “I can’t do this anywhere else. There are _people_ everywhere else.”

At that precise moment Rylen comes in through the southern door, meanders around the pair’s craft project, dumps a series of folders on Cullen’s desk, and empties out his outbox. Rylen then turns around and marches right back out with a cursory nod at Dorian and a quickly murmured, “ _Your worship”_ in Lavellan’s direction.

“There seem to be people _here_.” Dorian says.

“The soldiers like me.” Lavellan says. “And I’m their commanding officer. They can keep a secret.”

“If she’s here, the temp won’t come barging in to ask me stupid questions.” Cullen points out.

“Sneaky, sneaky.” Dorian waves, “Text me pictures when you’re done. I’m going to see if I can borrow some of Vivienne’s dragon thorn supply.”

-

Bull opens the door, takes one look at something, turns around, closes the door and says to Cullen, “Yeah. You’re not getting shit out of her today. Come back in about – a week.”

“What?” Cullen blinks.

“You heard me.” Bull says. “It’s not a good time. Trust me. If a week’s too long, maybe four days. Three would be pushing it. But right now isn’t good.”

“It is the _end of the world as we know it_. There is _never_ a good time.” Cullen says, blinking as Bull puts his hands on his shoulders, turns him around, and marches him back down the stairs towards the main hall. “Why? Is she sick? Should we call for a nurse? Solas?”

“Nah. Probably should send Cole up there, though.” Bull says.

“Nightmares?” Cullen asks, attempting to dig his feet into the ground and stop their walk without falling.

“No.” Bull squeezes Cullen’s shoulders. “It’s not that kind of bad time. Don’t worry. It’s not like that.”

Cullen feels something ease in his chest.

“Hm. Probably shouldn’t send the kid, actually. I’d say Sera but she can be abrasive.” Bull says. “Dalish and Krem. Maybe Grim. They’re good. Yeah. If you’ve got anything send it through one of those three.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me why?”

“I could.” Bull says, reaching past Cullen to open the door to the main hall. “I won’t, though.”

Cullen almost walks straight into Solas, who blinks at them in surprise.

“The Inquisitor?” Solas raises an eyebrow.

“Is down for the count for about five days.” Bull says. “She’ll probably come down on her own before then, but don’t count on anything.”

Solas looks at Bull, then Cullen – he shrugs – then gets a look of _understanding_.

“Oh.” Solas says, turning around, “It isn’t that important. Should I ask Dalish to go up to her? Or Josephine?”

“Josephine.” Bull snaps his fingers, “Yeah, she’s good, too.”

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Cullen says as Bull pushes him towards one of the tables still set up for breakfast.

“You never do.” Leliana says as he passes. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about and I can say that. It’s part of your charm.”

Cullen makes a face as he takes a seat next to Dorian.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t know what’s happening, either. Where’s Lavellan? She’s usually down by now. Or,  you know. Up. About. Chasing things, being active.” Dorian spreads some butter on his toast, waves the fork around, “Finishing doing fifty laps around Skyhold. Climbing sheer rock faces with her bare hands. Fighting actual bears. All before dawn.”

Cullen watches Solas and Dalish exchange a few words with Stitches near the entryway before Dalish turns around and goes back down the stairs. He has no idea where. Stitches and Solas continue talking for a few more moments before going down after her and disappearing from view.

“Can anyone tell me what’s going on?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Leliana says from down the table. “You usually do.”

 


	85. Chapter 85

“The Seeker does _yoga_?” Varric says, turning to Cullen who hums and finishes copying down whatever it was he was looking up. “Since _when_? _Why?_ It clearly isn’t working.”

“How would you know?” Cullen replies, switching the thick textbook for another one. Varric has no idea what he’s looking up or why. Also why he isn’t using the internet like a normal person.

“Um. Have you ever talked to the Seeker? There’s nothing _calm_ and _relaxed_ about that.”

“She’s plenty calm and relaxed. It’s all about comparison. I mean, compared to me, she’s a very calm and relaxed individual.”

“That’s an unfair standard, Curly. You make most people look so relaxed they’re dead. Sometimes I look at you and break out into sympathy hives.”

“Thank you.” Cullen deadpans, “Your sympathy hives mean so much to me.”

“The Seeker doing yoga. _When_ does she even find the time to do it in between punching bears and beating the shit out of people?”

“Lavellan finds the time to do yoga and she’s much busier than Cassandra.” Cullen points out, closing the book with a puff of dust that’s incredibly questionable. Cullen raises an eyebrow. “And Cassandra mostly does it for flexibility and core strengthening.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because Cassandra and I _talk_.” Cullen rolls his eyes as he stands up to go back to the shelves. “You know. Like _people_.”

“I talk like people. I never get any life-shattering revelations like _the Seeker does yoga_.” Varric calls after him. Cullen waves the book over his shoulder.

“Because you don’t talk like _people._ You talk like an _asshole_.”

“I feel proud for getting you to break your professional stance.” Varric says, standing up and going to follow after him.

“That _is_ my professional stance.” Cullen says, skimming titles before pulling down some thinner, but older looking books. “It’s in your file. Josephine approved it herself.”

“Amazing. How do you even get onto the subject of yoga?”

“I was asking her what she does to keep up with her core. It’s not as if she has the time to hit the gym when she’s following Lavellan around Thedas. And she told me she does yoga. The Divine signed her and Leliana for partners yoga. Apparently it’s also very good for building working relationships. She’s not wrong.” Cullen shrugs. “It’s only awkward for the first ten or so minutes.”

“That sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience.”

Cullen sighs, the loudest and longest and most troubled sigh in the world.

“Yes, Varric. Cassandra and I do partner’s yoga when we have the time.”

“I don’t even know where to start with this.” Varric says, slowly bringing his hands up as he stares at the fluorescent lights. “Is this a joke? Am I on camera?”

“Of course you’re on camera. _Leliana is our spy master_. And no, it isn’t a joke. I’d say you’re welcome to join us, but I’d rather not _die_.”

-

“I am worried for your heart health.” Lavellan says, gently placing a hand on Bull’s chest, frowning. “Big things have bad heart histories.”

“Is this a metaphorical thing or a literal thing?” Bull asks, turns to Stitches. “Is this a metaphor?”

“It could be both.” Stitches says. “She’s not wrong about the big things have poor hearts bit. I mean, at least for humans. Your entire race is big, so maybe your heart evolved to be better or something.”

Lavellan continues to frown, her hand over Bull’s heart as she stares at his chest.

Bull gently takes her hand and moves it away.

“I’m healthy. Trust me. Between Stitches and Dalish they’ve nagged me into shape. I mean, you can’t say I don’t exercise. You keep me busy, boss.”

“You said pizza was a vegetable.” Lavellan puffs out her cheeks. “And that having more than one slice was a salad.”

“That was a joke.” He turns to Stitches. “Back me up on this.”

“I’m not getting between you and the Inquisitor of Thedas.”

“I pay you.”

“She pays you to pay me.”

“For fuck’s sake. What’s the name of our group even called? _Lavellan’s Chargers_?”

“It might as well be.” Stitches puts his hands up. “Look, I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Lavellan pets his chest with her other hand.

“Bull’s heart please keep up and don’t be bothersome. I want him around for a very, very long time. I promise to get him to eat more green things and less yellow things.”

Bull looks over Lavellan and straight at Krem who takes one look at the scene, points, and starts laughing.

Bull glares.

Lavellan turns around. “It’s not funny, Krem. I have _concerns_.”

“Of course you do.” Krem says as he catches his breath. “ _Concerns_.”

-

“I slept.” Lavellan tells him, once. And Dorian rolls over and puts his hand on her hip and forces his eyes to open. “I slept. And I dreamed.”

“Tell me.” Dorian whispers, and Lavellan’s eyes glitter in the dark. Not stars. More distant, more ominous than stars. Something more intimate. More threatening. Promising.

“I dreamed myself.” She says, her hand sliding over his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles with her thumb in slow circular motions. Her hand is cold. “I dreamed myself and how I wanted the world to be. I shaped it. In my image. How it should have been. How I wanted it. I dreamed myself and I dreamed so many things. I had it all. Everything. Everyone.”

“And how was it?”

Dorian knows a few things about dreams and desires.

“I knew it wasn’t real. I was waiting for it to fall. I dreamed you a home, Dorian.” Lavellan’s hand slides up his side, resting over his ribs, then to his front, the front of his chest, pressing there. Firm and grounding. “I dreamed you a home, Dorian. But I knew you would leave it. And I did not want you to go. But I knew you would.”

Dorian squeezes her hip, feels the solid bone under his hand.

“I would come back for you.”

“I believed that of many people, Dorian.” She breathes in, the sound loud against the fabric of the pillow. “And look where I am now.”

Dorian doesn’t know what to say to this. So he says nothing.

“I slept and I dreamed. I dreamed myself the way I wanted to be. Whole. Ignorant. With you. With my clan. At Skyhold. In the forests. In my red boots with the small heels and the metal zippers. In the dress my mother made me when I was eighteen using the skin of a doe. It could have never gone together.” Her fingernails curl on his skin. “Two hands. Two lives. Together.”

She pulls her hand away and Dorian pulls her close, tangling their legs together as she breathes.

The sort of intimacy that he never knew he would miss.

He runs his hand up and down her back.

“It sounds beautiful.” Dorian whispers. “I’m sorry it isn’t like that. I’m glad you woke up.”


	86. Chapter 86

“You smoke?” Varric raises his eyebrows as Cullen paces, tapping ash off the end of a cigarette as he paces the narrow hallway between the garden and the main hall. Most people aren’t around right now. Dinner call and all that. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Cullen deadpans, running his free hand through his hair and muttering half-prayers under his breath.

“You know, Curly,” Varric says as he moves aside for Cullen to continue pacing, “Replacing one bad habit that can kill you with another, slightly slower one, isn’t exactly progress.”

“It’s one cigarette, Varric. I’m not a chain smoker.” Cullen says, shakes his head. “I’ve had a _day_.”

“Want to pull up some ancient castle and talk about it?” Varric gestures at a pile of rubble that still has to be moved.

“No.” Cullen says, stopping his pacing, hand on his hip as he rubs his temples with his free hand. “Shit.”

“If Lavellan could see you she’d be worried.”

“Well, there’s a reason why I’m pacing next to the Chantry and not next to the mess hall.” Cullen replies. “Fuck.”

“Seriously, what’s happening?”

“It’s none of your business.” Cullen says. And if it were anyone else, Varric would take that to mean, _back off you nosy prick_. But this is Cullen, so when Cullen says it, Varric truly believes that it’s out of his jurisdiction and telling him would probably make matters worse.

Varric raises his hands.

“I’m a good listener.”

“You’re a good bullshitter.” Cullen replies, taking a long drag off of the cigarette and shaking his head and going back to pacing. “I don’t even know where to start with this.”

“Maybe talk to Cassandra. You two seem to talk a lot about things.”

“Not this thing.” Cullen pauses, shakes his head. “No. We’ve already spoken about this. Talking to her about it more wont help. I can’t talk to her about it more – I mean. Varric, don’t you have anything better to do than to be nosy?”

“I’m an _author_. And a _merchant_. It’s my _job_ to be nosy.”

“Look. Just drop this. Let me have this smoke, panic for about ten minutes, then go get dinner and go back to working.”

“Sure, sure. Just a word of advice? You know, whatever it is you’re freaking out over? Lavellan’s going to find out. And if it’s as bad as you seem to make it, she’s going to be upset you didn’t tell her. And this is going to come around to bite you in the ass so hard you might not have an ass left. In the bad way.”

“Thank you. So much.” Cullen runs his hand through his hair again. “Can you go, now?”

“I don’t even know how you have hair left.” Varric says, but he turns around to leave anyway. “Sure, sure. Whatever you want, Curly. You’re sometimes the boss here.”

-

Cullen leans over, hands braced against the war table as he tries to discern some way out of this mess as Leliana presses her fingers together and mutters under her breath.

“She’s not going to like either of our suggestions.” Cullen says.

“Well it’s all we have to work with.” Lelilana replies. “Like it or not, we’re the only ones she has to choose between.”

“She’s going to figure out a middle way.” Cullen says. “It’s what she _does_.”

“I know it’s what she does, but there isn’t one. The three of us have been trying to untangle this puzzle for the past two weeks she’s been out. We can’t. We simply can’t. And there’s nothing to be said or done about that except to make a choice.”

“You guys?” Josephine says from where she’s sitting with her laptop.

“And what if she says no to what we have to say? What do we do, then? Because we both know she _will_.”

“What can we do? We did our best. This is our best.”

“And it’s not going to be good enough for the Inquisitor.”

“You guys?”

“That’s too bad, because it’s all we _have_.”

“You guys!” Josephine interrupts.

“What is it, Josie?” Leliana sighs, hitting her forehead against her steepled fingers as Cullen takes a step back from the war table, stretching his back, hands on his hips as he tilts his head back towards the ceiling.

“We should take a ten.” Cullen mutters.

“A message from the King.” Josephine says.

“What does it say?” Cullen rolls his neck, widening his stance as he stretches.

“No. I mean, _it’s a message from the king_.” Josephine repeats, turning the laptop around to the both of them to show a pending face-time request from King Alistair Theirin. “ _As in he wants to talk right now_?”

“Alistair has always had the worst timing. In every possible sense.” Leliana groans. “Is it at all possible to hang up or something? Put him on hold?”

“You want to put the King of Ferelden on _hold_?” Cullen gapes.

“He wouldn’t even take it personally. We’re bigger than Kings and I’ve known him for _years_.” Leliana snorts. “He’d probably just think Morrigan snuck in and cut the call herself.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended on his behalf or not.” Cullen shakes his head. “I’m taking a walk. I think I’m going to go insane if I have to stare at this map for a minute longer.”

“While you’re out get me an espresso. Grim fixed the machine this morning.”

-

“Must you be _here_?” Vivienne whispers as she enters the restaurant, eyes searching out her contact for the evening.

“All alone, standing there, eyes watching every move, not a single gap in my armor. I can’t look weak. I stand alone.” The demon whispers, invisible except for when it counts. “That’s you. But that’s also _her_. She was loud.”

“You should have just stayed with her, if you’re so interested in what she seems to think.”

“No.” The demon tilts his head, withdrawing a little, the outline of his body turns a transparent green. Vivienne wishes he would just _disappear entirely._

“No.” The demon repeats. “You know that she’d be sad if I were gone. You don’t want her to be sad. She’s better for you when she isn’t. Easier. You don’t know how to handle her sorrow. Yours are so difficult on their own.”

“Stop.”

“Alone, standing there – gleaming, isolated, alone under the spotlight. The ice will melt?”

“Why are you even here _?”_ She hisses as she waves at the dowager she’s meeting for brunch. Her grasp on the court seems to be waning in the wake of _Morrigan_. That can’t do.

“That was her. That was you. She’s worried for you. She wanted to come with you, but she knows.” The demon steps away from her, turning his head to look around as Vivienne kisses the dowager’s cheek and pretends to admire the little rat that she calls a dog. “She knows how important this is to you. It’s your stage just like the Inquisition is hers. But that doesn’t mean she has to send you in alone.”


	87. Chapter 87

“There are better ways to be cruel.” Vivienne says as soon as the Inquisitor is out of earshot, and Solas turns on her, eyebrow raised. Vivienne raises one back. “It is sometimes incredibly hard to believe that out of all of us _you’re the one she loves,_ considering how awful you can be to her.”

“Excuse me?” He turns to full face her, incredulity on his face as Vivienne smiles.

As if he didn’t know.

“At least when _I_ test her, I let her _know_ it’s a test.” Vivienne says, as if this needs explaining. “With you, _everything_ is a test, and she _always_ fails. I don’t know about _you_ , but where I come from they consider that _abusive_ and harmful. It leads to such terrible esteem issues, dear. And we’re trying to _build her up_ , not _tear her down_.”

“I don’t have an idea about what you’re talking about, de Fer.” Solas frowns. “If you’ll excuse me, I have actual things to do rather than listen to this.”

“ _Please_.” Vivienne stands up straight, crossing her arms as she moves to block the exit. “Every time you two talk, you can _see_ that you’re getting ready to judge her for whatever it is next that comes out of her mouth. When she says what you _want_ her to say, you treat her well. You’re _affectionate_ in that limited and _cold_ way. As if she were some sort of lap dog you rescued from the pound who did an amusing trick that you reward with a quick pat on the head or a smile. And when she _doesn’t_ say what you want – well. I don’t even need to continue the analogy further, do I?”

Solas’ lip curls up and Vivienne smiles.

“You think you’re so good, so much better than the rest of us. That you see her, that you understand her. And it’s true that she would choose _you_. Out of all of us, if it came down to it, she would choose _you_. It’s terrible, really. Because you don’t deserve it. She’s in love with the Iron Bull, you know. In that way of hers. She’s a little in love with most people. But with him it’s more than the rest. Him and Dorian. But she’d choose you.”

Vivienne steps into his space and she can feel his aura, slow ice against her own. The thunder of land masses and glaciers colliding.

“Don’t doubt for a minute that I don’t _see you_. I grew up playing the game. You learn to recognize the players. You learn to recognize _who holds the leash_. And you have her on a very, _very_ short one. The sort of leash you hang a girl by. And I’m going to warn you _once_ , Solas. That girl? _That girl?_ If you _fuck that girl up_  – if anything ever happens to her – _I know exactly_ who I’m going to point everyone who was even a _little_ bit in love with her at. And I truly, truly hope that it’s the Iron Bull who gets to you before I do.”

-

“He is a _spirit_. How many things have been polluted – distorted – _lost_  – Varric? Look around you. What is there remaining of the Fade, the old world, left?” Solas gestures out towards the mountains, in the direction of the city.

“Well maybe things changed for a reason. Maybe _Cole_ changed for a reason. Change can be good. We weren’t meant to stay stuck in whatever roles were started in. I mean – not to be an insensitive jerk here, but the elves aren’t exactly the top dog anymore, are they?” Varric replies, arms crossed.

“Have either of you, I don’t know – I’m not expert in this stuff –, asked _Cole_ about what _Cole_ wants?” Bull asks, looking between them. “Just throwing that crazy idea out there.”

“Cole doesn’t know what he wants.” Varric and Solas snap at him.

“Yeah. Figured you’d say something like that.” Bull mutters. “Just thought I’d say it. You know. So it could be said that it was said. I’m going to go do other things now. Things that  make sense. Like hitting stuff so I can get better at hitting moving stuff. You guys just keep your giant pissing contest going. You guys do realize that you can’t use Cole as this weird symbol of what you two stand for, right?”

They both turn to glare at him.

Bull retreats, hands in the air as he backs away. “Again. Just saying it so that it’s said.”

-

“I am worried about the state of our bees.” Lavellan declares to Sera, who turns to Dorian, who turns to Varric, who turns to Solas, who turns to Bull.

Bull grunts and continues to eat dinner.

Lavellan proceeds to continue talking.

“Bees are so important. They pollinate things. They make honey and wax. They’re good for so many reasons. Why are there so few bees in the world? I saw at least thirty dead bees outside today. It was awful. I wanted to move them away to somewhere with flowers. The ones that were still alive, I mean. But I couldn’t because we were in a terrible hurry and that’s just awful. Those poor bees.”

“You regularly set bees on fire.” Sera says.

Lavellan turns to her and gives her _the face_.

“Oh, shit and tits.” Sera groans, puts her head in her hand and muffles a scream into her palm. “Why do bad things happen to decent people?”

“Since when were you decent?” Varric asks, and Dorian yelps -

“Don’t kick _me_ , kick _him_.”

“The bees.” Lavellan sighs, puts her head in her hands and rests her elbows on the table. “How can I save the world if I can’t even save bees? I _love bees_.”

“The bees love you, too. They know you. They remember.” Cole says, appearing on top of the table, he sticks a violet in Lavellan’s hair. “They think you’re nice.”

Cole pets her head as she lowers herself down onto the table.

Lavellan turns her head to the side and lets out a mumbled string of jumbled sounds.

Everyone turns to Bull.

Bull shrugs.

“She’d rather wasps than bees.” Bull translates. “Also she wants a mass funeral for all the bees she’s set on fire and if bees go to shemlen heaven.”

 


	88. Chapter 88

Bull sees Lavellan in full military dress about an hour before they have to leave for the Winter Ball.

He’s sitting in her room, watching the Chargers text each other increasingly lewd and inappropriate jokes in their group chat, while keeping an eye on the bathroom door to make sure she doesn’t bolt.

“Look!” Lavellan throws open the door, “I’ve got _pants!”_

Bull hums, scrolling past a picture of Skinner doing something with a switchblade, a matchstick, and a mini-bottle of whiskey you probably shouldn’t be doing, and looks up.

He swears that his heart fucking tries to kick his ribcage open.

She looks -

 _Damn_.

Bull clears his throat as Lavellan spreads her arms and turns around for inspection.

“You look – looking good, Boss.” Bull says, rubbing his chest, right underneath his collar bone.

It isn’t that he isn’t aware of how she looks. She’s nice looking. Sweet. Adorable, even. And she looks young. Soft. All the time. Bull knows this. He would even be a little attracted to that if her personality wasn’t so _herself_.

But this uniform. It changes that. Lavellan, no matter how much Cullen or Cassandra or himself, trains her and runs her through drills and exercises and work outs and protein regimens, will never be _big_. She will never be broad or muscular or physically intimidating. Her body just doesn’t build muscle that way and she doesn’t use that kind of muscle to start with.

She’s not exactly – endowed anywhere either. Whatever curves she might have had were shaved off by years of living off the land, living scarce, and carving out a hand-to-mouth existence while on the run. She’s angles and curves and lines and stops and starts.

Coltish, he supposes, is one word he could use.

But in this uniform – he has to hand it to the tailor – in this uniform she looks -

Lavellan smiles at him, arms to her sides as Bull looks her over.

“It has _pockets_.” She says, putting her hands in said pockets to show him. She sounds incredibly proud.

Bull would be too, if he won a fight against Leliana, Josephine, _and_ Vivienne all arguing against him at the same time. That kind of fight needs _guts_.

He tugs at the collar of his own uniform – he isn’t actually going _in_ with her, but he’ll be floating around pretending to be a quiet and dumb body guard in the background – and everyone else’s  uniforms are red. But hers, he has no idea what kind of fabric or dye treatment they used but her dress jacket is some kind of blue-black that kind of shimmers under the light. And her gloves and boots are some sort of soft, pale-ish looking leather.

Lavellan’s hair is a lost cause of Dalish styling and perpetual movement, but that might just work in her favor.

In this uniform she doesn’t look _soft_ or _young_ or _sweet_. She doesn’t look _coltish_.

Lavellan looks _sharp_. She looks like a knife in its sheathe, slightly drawn and waiting. Lavellan looks _powerful_. She looks _in control_. And most importantly, she looks _like the Inquisitor of Thedas_.

Lavellan holds her arms up and starts to dance, humming to herself as she holds an invisible person around the waist. She only learned to lead. For some reason she kept getting confused learning the other half.

“You look real good, boss.” Bull repeats.

“Thank you.” Lavellan says. “How many crackers do you think I can fit in these pockets? Dorian says the food at these parties only tastes good if you have enough wine, but Bull, I’m so bad at drinking wine. It all tastes the same to me and what if someone tries to talk to me about whatever I’m drinking? I’ll probably say the wrong thing about it being _oaky_ or something and I’ll be kicked out.”

-

“Whatever it is, you might have to tell her, soon.” Leliana says. Cassandra pauses in the middle of checking her backpack for tomorrow – well, she supposes this morning’s flight.

“What?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.” Leliana clarifies. “Whatever you read in that book. Look. I’m not going to be nosy or pry. Whatever it is, it’s yours to tell. But I just wanted to warn you that Lavellan _knows_ something is bothering you. And you know that she’ll want to make it better for you.”

“It’s not her business.” Cassandra replies. “Or yours. It’s – It’s just things about the Seekers. Things I have to work out on my own.”

“Since when was Seeker business Cullen’s business? I would think it was more Lavellan’s business, considering she’s the one who helped get that book for you in the first place.”

“I _thought_ you said you weren’t going to be nosy.”

Leliana raises an eyebrow. “Being nosy is having someone get copies of the book for me. This is me just knowing you and Cullen recently had a talk. And as it so happens, ever since that talk, Cullen’s been more stressed out than usual. Whatever it is you told him – is it – Cassandra, is it something that’s, to be frank, going to bite us all in the ass?”

“It’s _Seeker_ business. And – Templar. It includes Templars. In a way.” Cassandra zips her bag shut and throws it over her shoulder, moving past Leliana towards the door. She has to check the car before they go. After that time with the cut breaks, she isn’t taking any chances.

Leliana moves forward, quick, and takes Cassandra’s arm. Cassandra pauses. Leliana’s grip is loose, and her thumb slides underneath Cassandra’s rolled up sleeve, running over the side of one of the scars on her inner bicep.

“Cassandra.” Leliana says. “The Inquisition, and its Inquisitor, is a knife.”

Cassandra looks at her over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. Leliana looks back at her, into her.

“A knife can kill. It can destroy. It can severe and it can cut. It can _hurt_. It can threaten. But it can also clean. It can cut off impurities, infections, severe ties to dead weights. Cut open infected wounds and relieve pressure.”

“Your point?”

“Whatever it is that’s troubling you – and now Cullen? You don’t have to handle it alone. I think that many of the problems we face are because people, groups, tried to handle things on their own and fucked up. And then tried to deal with that alone, as well. It doesn’t have to be that way. The Inquisition is a fresh start for all of us. It fights the problems that we thought couldn’t be fixed. Maybe it can fix yours.”

Leliana lets go.

“I just wanted you to know that.”


	89. Chapter 89

“I can hear them,” Lavellan says to the night sky, arms braced against the railing of the emergency escape stairs. “Sirens, as far as the eye can see.”

“That’s nice. We have to go.” Sera replies, half her attention on the door, the other half on the rest of the fire escape that looks like it hasn’t seen an inspector, a repair man, or _the light of day_ in about fifty billion years. She swears she can _smell_ it aging.

“Where are they all going? Why aren’t they here, where they should be?” Lavellan asks, turning away from the rooftops and streetlights and distant blinking skyscrapers to look at Sera. Honest to fucking _Maker_ confusion on her face, as if that wasn’t the world’s most obvious question with the world’s most obvious answer.

Sera doesn’t know if she hates her for that kind of stupid or loves her for it.

“Because no one can afford for them to come here. _Duh_.” Sera replies, fingers itching on her bow to just _shoot_ something between the eyes.

Guns are nice. But guns are loud. Guns are obvious. Guns are shit in a close fight.

Guns can’t shoot bullets that are on fire.

Guns can’t shoot bullets coated in poison.

(Sera used to be alright with guns. But guns aren’t enough. You just move on to bigger guns, louder guns, more expensive guns.

So she moved backwards.

People are more afraid of bows than guns. You don’t know what the fuck to do if someone aims a bow and goddamn arrow at you. They don’t train you for those situations in school.)

“Which is also why we come _here_.” Sera continues. “Because no one looks here, which means all the pieces of shit hang around here, which means we know exactly where to aim.”

Lavellan lets one hand drop away from the railing, and shoots one last look at the horizon.

“Where are they going, Sera?” Lavellan asks, voice soft. “Where do they go if it’s not here?”

“Away. Wherever the money is.” Sera says and Lavellan’s hand sparks bright against the dark.

“We’re going to change that.” Lavellan says to Sera, silhouette sharp against the sky. Lavellan’s eyes make little rings of light. Sera knows her own do that, too, but when it’s Lavellan it looks – _different_. Bigger. Something more. “Sera. The Inquisition is going to change that. Aren’t we?”

Sera wants to believe that. Really.

A lot of people say that.

Maybe if it was Lavellan, it would be true. Maybe. Lavellan isn’t as in control of this entire thing as they’d all like to believe.

Bureaucracy and shit.

“Yeah.” Sera says, holding out her hand for her friend. “Sure. C’mon. Let’s start by not getting caught in a meth lab, first, yeah?”

-

She felt for the lock in the dark. Years of living in darkness, hunting at night, moving through precious and carefully guarded forest paths, and now in this shemlen city, in these buildings, she has trouble seeing.

Now, of all times, the Anchor chooses to be dim.

She reaches for it, and hesitates.

Maybe it is because she hesitates that the Anchor doesn’t light her way. Maybe the God who made this Anchor feels it, knows her doubts. Maybe that God knows that she has been doubting.

Every prayer is a knock on the door of the sky, and the Gods are silent. Are they locked away, silenced by the powers of the wolf?

Or maybe – maybe they just aren’t there?

Corypheus may be right about that.

Lavellan isn’t sure. She doesn’t know if she wants to be sure, either.

She feels the key pad against her fingertips and wishes she were better at this sort of thing. Sera and Bull are so good at it. Varric, too.

If she were Cole, she could just fade through the walls that are keeping her here. But she isn’t any of them. She’s Lavellan of rusted pad-locks, chains, leather strips, and a life time running.

So Lavellan does what she knows how to do. Lavellan hides.

You can hide anywhere, if you know how.

How else have her people survived mass extinction?

The door has an electric lock, but she felt the hinges, earlier. It swings out, towards her left. That means someone entering will look center, to the right of the cell, and then pan left.

So Lavellan hides in the front left corner, back against the wall and listens. There are air vents in this room. She knows that for certain. No cameras, she cannot see their light or hear them. If there are cameras, they are very good, very quiet.

But she is also good – very good – at being quiet.

So Lavellan sits. And she allows her mind to slip into that state of semi-awareness, semi-thought, where she is not Lavellan, woman with the Anchor, trapped in this body of bone and red flesh and tattoos and piercings and hair and teeth. She is not Lavellan, trapped in this room, possibly being watched.

She is the room. She is the air in the room. She is a breath. She is not even a thought. She _is_.

And she waits.

Come. She thinks, _is the thought_. _Come_.

-

He was stunned – the girl in front of him looked – everything, and nothing at all – like _her_. The girl. The woman.

Which girl? As if there were more than _the one_. This one. Her. Always.

Solas knew it would hurt. He knew it would kill her. He knew it would consume her – with or without his permission. He knew that it would corrupt and destroy her. He knew.

But he did not know that -

He did not know that it would – that _anything_ , really – could _change_ her.

He holds out his hand for her – instinct, training, conditioning, sympathy, pity – and she looks at him. Half-hope and half-hate. The hate that can only come from love. The kind of hate he remembers in his own reflection, when he came to realize what he had become. What _they_ had become. What _they_ had done.

The wheel of history continues to turn. And they all must dance.

“It was _you_.” She whispers and Solas feels something in his chest shiver in anticipation of greater pain. It tells him that whatever he has felt and seen before – it will be nothing compared to this. It warns him.

But how does one brace themselves for ruin?

“Yes.” He gives her the truth, now. It doesn’t matter if she has it.

She will die.

She is already dead.

His personal ghost of a child. This is what the wolf brings. The Dalish were not wrong about that. About him.

(Do they know how much he loves them, though? He loves them enough to watch them as they die. You hold your children to your breast and wish it were you, but they slip through your fingers like sun and stars, as if they were never there. A suffering that can never be named.)


	90. Chapter 90

“You love him.” Cole says, sounding uncertain as Lavellan quietly knits in the back seat of the SUV. “But you also _don’t want him_. I don’t understand it.”

“Cole.” Lavellan says, mini-LED light between her teeth as she squints at the knitting pattern she had Cassandra print out for her because the printers never really like it when she pushes their buttons or tell them what to do. She’s fairly certain technology is too afraid to be mean to Cassandra, and that’s why Lavellan has Cassandra do most of her things on the internet for her, except Sera because the internet is also very bad at being mean to Sera.

It is incredibly mean to Blackwall. Meaner than it is to _her_. And that’s saying something because she once pushed a button and a computer burst into flames and screaming sounds.

Varric still won’t let her touch his laptop, even though she got it fixed and everything.

“And he loves you, but he doesn’t _want_ you. And he wants _Dorian_ , sometimes and Dorian sometimes considers wanting him back but how can you control what you want? And both of them don’t love each other and they both decide not to want each other and it’s – I don’t understand it because sometimes Cassandra – “

“Cole.” Lavellan repeats, dropping the LED in her lap and nudging the back of his seat with her foot. “I’m not supposed to know this.”

Cole turns around and looks at her, baffled. He has a new hat, it’s a beanie. She’s not exactly sure if it suits him very well, but it was very soft and it should be warmer than the straw hat he had on before and it’s very cold here. And wet.

Lavellan is learning how to knit a capelet.

“I like your capelet.” Cole says. Lavellan smiles at him and he tugs at her shoelace. “And you already know all of this anyway. It’s not – I’m not doing wrong if you already know, am I?”

“I already know but they haven’t told me. I don’t know because they told me themselves.” Lavellan says. Cole clambers over the center console and crumples up next to her, head tentatively resting on her shoulder.

Lavellan pets the beanie. Cole picks the light out of her lap and holds it for her.

She thinks he’s learning how to ask for affection. It’s good. Cole could always be doted on more. He’s so nice all the time.

“I don’t understand.” Cole repeats as Lavellan slowly resumes knitting. She isn’t sure if she likes knitting very much, she’s more fond of sewing. But she’s not very fond of that, either.

Lavellan much prefers gardening and occasionally cooking, to be honest. Those were always her favorite chores. They weren’t even chores for her.

Though most anything is better than laundry.

Then again – there are _machines_ that do laundry here, so laundry isn’t even that bad now that she thinks about it.

Cole presses his cheek against her shoulder to draw her attention.

“You don’t have to.” Lavellan says.

“But how can I help if I don’t?”

“Maybe it isn’t your part to help in that.” Lavellan replies. “Is it hurting them?”

“It hurts _you_. Sometimes.”

Lavellan hums. “That’s an old hurt, though, and one that cannot be healed. By your or anyone else but time and wisdom and age and all those things that adults always say help.”

She can feel Cole’s disappointment.

“You could ask the Iron Bull about it.” Lavellan says. “He’s much better at explaining these sort of things. Emotional things. It’s his job. Sort of.”

“But he’s part of the problem. One of the knots in the net that’s tangled around the thrashing thing.” Cole protests. “And he, himself, is a bleeding knot and it hurts and grows tighter if I touch it.”

“Then you should let it alone, then.” Lavellan rests her head on his. “Cole, Cole, Cole, some things are for us to work out all on our own. You can help with most things, but some things are ours to heal and nurture. Give us some credit.”

-

“I told you, I don’t tell stories. I’m not that kind of bard.” Leliana says as Lavellan trails after her, curious and begging eyes. Like a puppy, except more unsettling, quieter, and generally just a tad bit more graceful.

A calf, or a faun, Leliana muses as Lavellan picks her way around empty cardboard boxes.

“But you _do_ tell stories. All the time.” Lavellan whines. “You do story time every other Sunday at the Chantry classes, and every Thursday before nap time at the nursery.”

Lavellan points at a small shelf towards the window where there’s a little row of brightly colored children’s books.

Leliana sighs.

“I don’t tell the sort of stories you’d be interested in.” Leliana replies and Lavellan squawks when Leliana turns around and lightly smacks her forehead with a manila folder. “And you’re procrastinating telling _me_ the story of how you lost an entire cargo train of Venatori supplies despite having three trackers on it.”

Lavellan begins to fumble – fingers and arms flying as she tries to explain her side of the story, skipping around between here and there and then and when.

Leliana takes mental notes on it and can’t help but think about -

A time when she was the sort of bard that told stories, wrote songs, and penned quick poems.

It was a long time ago.

Leliana is conscious of the weight of her phone in her coat pocket.

Surana’s number is – out of service. No one’s been able to get a message to her in months. Not Alistair.

Not even Sten-now-Arishok, who’s always known exactly where Surana is and what she was doing, knows where she is or what she’s doing. Leliana can only hope that – that if Surana ever _does_ need them that she’s _able_ to get to them.

What sort of stories do you have to tell, Surana? Leliana thinks, What sort of stories would you tell _Lavellan_ if you could?

Leliana reaches out and pokes Lavellan between the eyes. Lavellan goes cross-eyed for a moment.

“You’re _distracting me_ from the _best part_.” The Inquisitor says after a moment of silence.

Leliana smiles. “Are you sure that you’re not the bard here? See? Why should I tell you stories when you can tell them all on your own?”


	91. Chapter 91

She could smell the gas even before she opened the door, and Sera will wonder why the hell she did this, but her first thought was _fuck that’s going to hurt_ and then to turn around to where Lavellan was chattering on about something Sera hasn’t been listening to for the past ten minutes, yell _down!_ and throw herself at Lavellan as hard as she could.

Sera doesn’t like Lavellan. Sera doesn’t _hate_ Lavellan.

Sera hates a lot of things.

She hates bigotted assholes, people who don’t listen, people who don’t understand obvious things, demons, magic, elves who are too elfy, to name a few.

Lavellan is a few of these things combined in a way Sera doesn’t actually hate, though.

Sera does not hate Lavellan.

Sera doesn’t think she knows Lavellan well enough to judge, yet.

But Sera’s first reaction is to throw herself at Lavellan and push her down because she smells gas and Sera’s not going to risk it.

There are dozens of Jennies in this zip code alone, let alone all of Orlais. There’s only one Herald of Andraste.

(And that’s what Lavellan is, by the way. The Herald of Andraste. And Lavellan is dumb for not understanding something so obvious and for not listening to everyone with better sense.)

At least, that’s what Sera says later, when she wakes up in the shitty infirmary back at Haven. And Sera knows its Haven because it smells wet and cold and - like - not proper cities.

Lavellan looks stupidly solemn sitting next to Sera’s crappy cot and she says, all serious and business like, “Sera, you saved my life.”

“You’re welcome, I guess. Whatever, don’t make a big deal out of it.” Sera says.

Lavellan’s eyebrows make a little v and her nose scrunches up.

“I’m not sure how I do that. You saved my _life_.”

Sera immediately wishes she could fake being unconscious.

“And you’re making the demons go away, call us even. Look, just quit it, alright?”

“I won’t forget this.” Lavellan says. And it’s kind of like a promise or a threat and it makes Sera deeply uncomfortable because she’s still not sure if she even likes Lavellan or not. It seems weird to have Lavellan be all grateful and shit.

“Fine, go write it down in your diary or whatever.” Sera says. “Go away, I’m going to try and go back to sleep. And don’t stare at me while I’m sleeping. I swear, you’re just so - _ugh_.”

-

She took a deep breath and said to her boss -

“I think I have a crush on your friend.”

Lavellan pauses in the middle of telling Dagna a story about how she helped one of the harts give birth this morning and fixes her huge eyes on Dagna.

It’s really, _really_ unnerving and Dagna’s met the Warden Commander of Ferelden and like - argued her into convincing her dad to let her come to the surface. So that’s saying something.

Sometimes Dagna wonders what it would be like if the two were ever in a room together - and it’s not like that _couldn’t_ happen, right? They’re like, both really important people and stuff. It could totally happen. And they sort of share a lot of mutual friends. Like Dagna. Though Dagna’s not sure if the Warden Commander would consider Dagna a friend. And Dagna was pretty young back then. That’s not to say that Dagna’s old _now_ , but -

“Dorian?” Lavellan says, sounding puzzled. “Cole? _Cassandra?”_

Dagna coughs, “No! Ancestors, no! I mean - _Sera_.”

Lavellan still looks puzzled.

“Sera?”

“Yeah.” Dagna resists the urge to fidget. Or to turn around and stick her face directly into the forge. “So I was hoping I could - I don’t know.”

The Inquisitor no longer looks confused, and there’s a certain kind of delight that just makes her face glow like a rune. “Sera! Dagna, I hope you aren’t about to ask me for permission to date her. Because I don’t think I could do that and that would probably strike you right off as a potential suitor for Sera anyway. Also that doesn’t sound very much like you, but I probably ought to cover that base and say no, I can’t do it, anyway.”

“No, I wasn’t going to ask that. I was going to ask - well. People like you. A lot.”

It’s probably easier to craft entire suits of armor out of red lyrium than to have this conversation. In fact, Dagna kind of wants to do that right now. She probably could’ve out-thought Maddox if this were her motivation.

“They do?” Back to puzzled. “Thank you?”

“I just wanted to know if you could - maybe give me pointers? You’re good at talking to people, getting them to talk back and generally not think of you as crazy. I have that problem. I’m not actually crazy, I mean, I just - agh. See?”

Lavellan tilts her head.

“I don’t know, Dagna. You could just talk to her. Sera doesn’t really judge people.”

“Um. No. She does. A lot. And that’s great. I mean, no. That’s terrible. But she’s got a discerning eye and she’s honest and I think that’s great. I’m really bad at opening my mouth when it isn’t to defend some sort of arcane text or ritual.”

Lavellan laughs. “Dagna, honestly, just talk to her. I mean, she thinks you’re wonderful enough already. Why don’t you just tell her you’re interested? You two talk all the time.”

“But that’s like - academic. Setting stuff on fire. Boom.” Dagna says. “And I’m going to run out of ways to impress her with science.”

“So impress her with you.” Lavellan shrugs.

“I don’t think Sera would be very interested in stuff about the Circles.” Dagna feels her shoulders slump a little. A lot.

“But she’d definitely be interested in stuff about you.” Lavellan says, reaching out and squeezing Dagna’s shoulder.“Trust me on this one, Sera wouldn’t just humor you and hang around because science.”

“She’s been _humoring me_?” Dagna feels her stomach literally drop out of her body.

“Dagna.” Lavellan says, both hands now on Dagna’s shoulders. In any other situation, Dagna would be focusing on how the Anchor feels and cataloging every single second of this. But this is not any other situation. “Did you hear anything that just came out of my mouth just now? She hasn’t been humoring you. She would love to listen to you talk about not-science. Maybe over hot chocolate? Or ice cream? I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her? Right now? This very minute? She’s probably trying to get Dorian to give her his wifi-hotspot right now. Her favorite vlog updates today.”

“The one about making weird pies?”

“See? Lots of things to talk about. You know what she likes. You’re good.”


	92. Chapter 92

He didn’t want to go out on such a night but he didn’t have much choice.

“She’s asleep.” Bull says and they all breathe a sigh of relief. “Pavus and Cole are watching her. Between the two of them, I don’t think she’ll be able to run.”

“That’s good. Well, not good, but it’s something.” Cullen says, hands clasped in front of him as he rubs his knuckles against the permanent furrow in his brow. “Maker, one thing after another.”

“What news?” Vivienne says, voice low as she turns from Bull to Josephine.

“Not much. There may be some survivors. But we’re not getting through and none of our agents have been able to report back anything past the initial reports.”

Josephine’s voice falters towards the end.

“It wasn’t your fault, Josie.” Leliana says, voice steady and eyes dark as she stares down at the ground. “We should’ve pressed harder.”

Josephine doesn’t say anything. Bull carefully reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder.

“Lavellan doesn’t blame you. And you shouldn’t either. If you really want to make it up to her, just keep trying. The Boss just needs someone to try for her right now.”

“She’s lost her entire family and it’s because I’ve been drilling diplomacy and image into her head for the past few months.” Josephinepresses the edge of her tablet to her head. “Perhaps I should stop trying.”

“Never that.” Leliana and Blackwall say at the same time before falling silent.

“Speaking of family,” Varric says from next to Cullen, “Where’s Solas?”

“He was out before she heard the news.” Blackwall says. “I don’t think he’s been back since. I think Sera and Cassandra went to find him.”

Bull breathes a small sigh of relief at that.

It’s something he should’ve thought of. But he was preoccupied at the time.

“So, no updates. I’m going to go back to her room.” Lavellan was twitchy. He’s pretty sure that they only got her down due to sheer luck and her being overwhelmed. “Someone has to be the one to tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“That it wasn’t a dream.”

(Cole would make it too intimate, too sharp. The Kid would try to say it to help but it would cut deeper and fuck her up more. Pavus wouldn’t know how to say it, would try to be gentle about it. With her. But that would just hurt her. Push her back into the violent denial and confusion.

Bull knows how to tell her. He knows exactly how she needs it to be said.)

 _This is real_.

-

She clung to the piece of driftwood, praying for daylight - it couldn’t be more than a few minutes away. It couldn’t.

She’s been treading water for _hours_ and the sky definitely looks like it’s changing colors. Probably. It has to.

How long can the night fucking be?

Sera groans because she can feel Dorian slipping off her back and why did he have to wear such heavy fucking clothing and so many layers of it? _And why does he have so much stuff_?

She’s totally going to call him fat to his face later. When they’re not treading water in the middle of the fucking ocean and hoping for a fucking miracle.

They’re in the Inquisition and they’re friends with the freaking Herald of Andraste. Miracles are practically part of their _About Us_ section on the official Inquisition webpage. Sera wonders if they get employee discounts on miracles or what.

She’d laugh if she didn’t feel like she was fucking dying.

(Feel like, but not actually. Sera didn’t come this far to die like this. And prissy Tevinter over here didn’t do all that just to die stuck here with Sera. They both have too much left to do, too many people to prove wrong.)

Sera swears in her head because she can’t remember if there are sharks this close to land. Are they still close to land? She really wishes she paid more attention to memorizing prayers instead of dumb puns.

Dorian is slipping and Sera doesn’t know how long she can keep this up. She really just hopes that Dorian isn’t actually dead rather than a dead weight.

Fuck.

This is the part where Lavellan shows up like - like. Sera doesn’t even know.

But this is the part where Lavellan shows up.

-

This whole fucking family is cursed, Dorian thinks. And they’ve been cursed since - _who even knows_.

He crumples the letter - an actual, hand to Maker _letter_. As if his mother made an effort to put pen to paper rather than copy paste something off of a random internet search - and tosses it into the trash where it belongs.

He’s already had to read three academic papers by that nonsense weirdo who only refers to herself as _your trainer_ today. He’s not going to read more bullshit if it’s not part of his job description.

Not that he actually _has_ a job with the Inquisition, so much as he gets to live in a _castle_ for free and have all the finest _everything_ in the world plus research funding and resources just _because_. Who said that the end of the world had to be terrible?

“This doesn’t look like it belongs here.” Dorian closes his eyes and hopes for patience. Not prays. Because not even the Maker could give Dorian the patience he needs for _Lavellan_. He hits his head against the heels of his palms. “Dorian, I can’t read Tevene.”

“Don’t read my mail.” Dorian says. “Leave it. It’s paper. That’s a trash bin for paper. It’s fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Lavellan says. “But it looks expensive and thought out.”

“Everything from Tevinter is expensive and thought out and mostly belongs in that bin.”

Dorian turns around and waves her over. “Leave it, leave it.”

“Alright.” Lavellan gently puts it back in the trash, like she’s putting down a bee or something. “If you’re certain.”

“I’m certain.”

Lavellan seems quiet and Dorian foolishly thinks that she’s going to let it go. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

“It’s just that you probably shouldn’t ignore your mother like that.”

Dorian groans, then pauses. “How did you know it was my mother?”

“Sometimes we intercept Venatori mail and Krem reads it to me.” Lavellan says. “Some squiggles look different from other squiggles. I’m good at remembering the squiggles for family members.”

“Only _you_ would call them squiggles.”


	93. Chapter 93

He was at a crossroads, and whichever path he took would ruin someone’s life.

The honest truth of what he is, the monster he’s made of himself, what he’s become - it would shatter what he’s built with the Inquisition. They know him as Warden Blackwall. They know him as the Warden who stood with them. How many people came to the Inquisition because of him? How many times did he speak of a cause that was not his own? Call those lost brothers and sisters when he was never part of them?

But to continue to lie - how can he continue this charade? Letting people die and be punished for his damn pride and foolishness. Tom Rainier’s pride and foolishness.

How many years has he lived in shadows, in a dead man’s skin?

Maker above this isn’t an easy choice. But it’s a choice he has to make.

(He imagines Josephine’s face when she finds out what she’s done. Who he is. Josephine, Josephine who loves Orlais, Josephine who loves diplomacy, Josephine who values peace and honesty and connection above all.

Lavellan. Trusting Lavellan. Would she continue to trust so easily afterwards?)

If Lavellan can make the choice, then so can he.

Blackwall makes his choice because how could he not choose this after all the preaching he’s done, after all the judgements he’s cast, all the things he’s done and what he’s claimed to stood for? How can he not make this choice when he is surrounded in people who have?

The Iron Bull cast aside the Qun.

Lavellan saved the Empress who rules over the Empire that crushed her people, and continues to do so today.

They all made choices.

It’s time Blackwall made his. In the Inquisition everyone bears the brunt of what they have done, their past actions return and they force to look it in the eye and acknowledge it.

This is Blackwall getting ready to look Rainier in the eye. This is Blackwall getting ready to return to the scum he was - always has been. Just because you coat shit in gold doesn’t mean it still isn’t shit.

Blackwall hesitates over writing the note. What can he say? There is no excuse he can give. He’s beginning to realize this now. It doesn’t matter what he says.

It’s already been done.

He should’ve fucking stayed then. He should have fucking dealt with it.

(“We are agents of change.” Lavellan says. “We are changing the world. And I want it to be for the better. For all of us.” She looks at him and smiles. “For Wardens, too.”

I am no Warden. And I was never worthy of becoming one.)

-

She made a poor job of hiding the damage. But somehow they all fucking missed it all anyway.

Bull can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe if he payed more attention, said no to a few more jobs, hung back more -

“She wouldn’t want you to think that way.” Cole says. “I didn’t see it either.”

Bull bites back snapping _and what’s your excuse_ -

It doesn’t matter. Cole hears it anyway.

“There isn’t one.” Cole fades away a little and Bull quickly holds out his hand. Cole takes it and becomes just a touch more solid. “I’m sorry. I know I should have. Her pain could call me anywhere. I don’t understand how she hid it from me. Did she make me forget? _How_? She was always the brightest. I could see her anywhere, everywhere. Why didn’t I see this?”

“I don’t know.” Bull says.

Neither of them saw and it cost Lavellan an arm. It cost Lavellan a lot.

It always seems to cost Lavellan something.

Their mistakes, her price.

Stupidly unfair.

He always promises to do better for her. Bull always seems to fail those promises.

He doesn’t know what else to promise, now. What has he sworn to her that he hasn’t broken? What promise could he give her that she would believe?

Bull waits for Cole to say something. He says nothing.

The silence somehow hurts more than anything Cole could possibly say.

-

The best way to cut a woman down would be to flirt with her partner, but Lavellan has no single partner in any conventional sense. This makes things easier on Leliana.

Anyone trying to land a mental blow on Lavellan via implications of treachery from her most trusted ones would be rather hard pressed to pick a target.

Dorian? Tevinter altus, yes, but there are no secrets between him and Lavellan. And the two are stubborn at working through problems with each other. Lavellan would have infinite patience in talking with Dorian and trying to figure out things between them.

The Iron Bull? Former Ben-Hassrath spy and mercenary, but he would lay his life down for Lavellan. He would answer to her unflinchingly. There is something between them that goes deeper than words.

Solas? No one knows anything about Solas. He is an enigma. There is no lie they can create, no evidence to fabricate, no scheme they can put into play.

Cullen? Faithful soldier. Everyone who’s spoken to him would know his loyalty. He’s done things, made mistakes, but he is steady and determined to do what’s right.

Cassandra? No one would be dumb enough to try and implicate Cassandra in treachery. Same for Josephine.

Cole is a secret that everyone knows but can never remember.

Lavellan is safe from this kind of attack. But it does not mean that people will not be dumb enough to try anyway.

And there are people who are actually dumb enough to try. It’s actually a little astounding.

“What are you laughing at?” Cullen asks.

Leliana smirks. “Do you really want to know?”

Cullen draws back a little and looks at Josephine for back up. Josephine ignores them both in favor of getting actual work done.

Leliana taps the envelope against the table and clears her voice to read out loud.

Cullen holds his hands up. “No. I don’t. I really don’t. If it’s anything like the last one, I do not. Leliana, please.”

“Well. You did say please.”


	94. Chapter 94

“Varric,” Lavellan says in that tone of voice that Varric has slowly learned to mean she’s about to lay down a whole new meaning of the words _mind blowing_ sentence without the common decency of giving Varric enough time to prepare to flee the country to escape this fate. “You are a writer.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” Varric answers her carefully. You never know where the other shoe is going to drop when you talk to her. Don’t get Varric wrong, the kid is great, a real joy to be around. It’s just that sometimes she can tie your brain into an actual knot and leave it that way.

“I am not very good at understanding the meaning of the words people put together.” Lavellan says, curling her arms around her knees as she rocks back and forth, side to side. “I have been trying to understand this phrase for _ages_ but I’ve always been a little shy to ask anyone. You never judge me for not knowing anything and that’s wonderful of you so I was hoping you could explain something further for me.”

“I make no promises, but I can try. Lay it on me.”

That’s one of the ones he explained to her a few weeks into this whole mess, in between one of Haven’s medics stitching a neat line over the meat of her palm and her doing her best to hold still but also trying to argue with Solas who was across the room and making a hasty retreat.

“The phrase _make love not war_.” Lavellan frowns. “I do not understand it. You do not make love. You make war. War can only be made, where else would it come from if it was not made by people? But you cannot make love. You can _grow_ love, but you cannot _make_ love.”

Lavellan rocks side to side, slowly.

“I mean. I know that when you say _make love_ it’s just another prettier way to say had sex, but I’ve had sex before and it’s nothing like love, so I’m not sure why people say _make love_.”

Varric slides that bit of information off to the side. It’s not for him to think about even though it’s kind of mind boggling that Lavellan’s ever had sex with anyone, considering that she’s. Well. Lavellan.

“Well. I”m not sure if you’re right about that. I think it mostly caught on because it was a catchy saying than anything. But still. I think you could make love. Not in the - uh. Sexual sense. The emotional one.”

Lavellan frowns.

“But the word make implies force. Active choice. That you build it, make it, create it. That you put it together piece by piece. It sounds - it’s artificial. You can’t _build_ love. It’s not mechanical. Love grows. It’s nurtured. It just _happens_.”

“Let’s put it this way, have you ever been stuck with people you don’t like?”

Lavellan gives him a funny look.

“Alright, dumb question.” Varric leans back in his chair and idly turns his phone over in his hands to give himself something to do. His hands run over familiar rounded corners and smooth planes. “So you’re stuck here with a bunch of people you don’t like. But you kind of have to stick with it. So what do you do about it? Well. Some of us start fights, try to drive the other person crazy and hope they give up. Or we just. Get along. Grit our teeth and bear it.”

“But that doesn’t make love that’s tolerance.”

“But over time love can pop up from that, you know. I mean, did you think Isabela and Aveline liked each other to start with? Anders and Merrill? Sebastian and Fenris? Now we’re one crazy group of friends.”

“Whenever I talk to Fenris it sounds more like spite.” Lavellan says.

“Okay but that’s because Broody is a terrible person to talk to about love and war because he’s Fenris.” Varric says. “I mean he feels things he just would rather talk about them straight on pain of death. Sarcasm and bitter turns of phrase are more his thing.”

Lavellan wrinkles her nose.

“You don’t have to get it, you know.” Varric tells her.

Lavellan sighs. “Just another saying to add to the stack of things I don’t understand then. Thanks for trying Varric. I’m sorry I’m such a lost cause.”

Another saying Varric explained to her early on.

-

“It’s all bills, bills, bills. That’s my only answer, Now,” He snorts pointing to Cullen, “Now him? Him? I don’t know what’s in hismail but I’m pretty sure that he would happily let you set it on fire in front of him.”

“Behind me.” Cullen mutters, “Plausible deniability. Do I need glasses?”

“Don’t give your fanclub more material.” Dorian says. “And perhaps you should, I don’t know. Take a break if your vision is starting to go?”

Cullen groans and closes his eyes. “It burns. It actually burns. My eyes haven’t hurt like this since I was in tenth year.”

“Tenth year, what did you suddenly stop studying after that?”

“The Commanders found out I was going over hours and gave me a very stern warning and lecture about losing my eyesight and going blind.” Cullen replies. “It surprisingly worked. Until now.”

“Okay, but I’m just here to see if anyone has recycling.” Lavellan says. “Can we get back to that? Does anyone have recycling? I’m trying to fill the bin so that I have an excuse to go.”

“Why do you need to go?” Dorian asks. “Can’t you just wait for the pick up on Wednesday like always?”

“I want to go see the place myself.” Lavellan says. “I’ve never gone before. They always come to us and I’ve never lived in a city before this. How does it work? How do you recycle paper that has things on it? Do you just wash the bottles and send them back to the factory? What does itmean when something is made out of 65% recycled material? Also is it near a landfill because Sera wants some things and I’m pretty sure you can only get them from garbage.”


	95. Chapter 95

He opened the door to find her standing there, crying.

Bull is only a little bit ashamed and embarrassed that he closes it immediately, then opens it again, just to check if maybe he was seeing things.

He isn’t.

He considers going and getting a second pair of eyes, but Josephine is crying and that would be a really shitty thing to do. So Bull sighs, closes the door behind him, and goes to awkwardly crouch his bulk next to her.

“Hey, hey,” He says as Josephine sobs into a frilly handkerchief that he vaguely recognizes as Cullen’s, “What happened?”

Josephine makes an admirable attempt at getting her hiccuping sobs under control, but she ends up crying harder and Bull just carefully rubs a large circle on her back for a few shuddering breaths.

“You want me to get you someone? You hurt?”

Josephine shakes her head, and attempts to pat his arm - or some part of him, she ends up just hitting his face with her wet hand. Bull’s been hit with worse, so he just laughs when Josephine gives him this horrified _I didn’t mean to do that_ look.

Bull crouches there and just pets her back for a while as Josephine tries to get herself under some semblance of control. His legs kind of get tingly and uncomfortable after a while, but it’s not that hard to ignore.

After a while Josephine’s down to some hiccups and a couple of choked breaths.

“I - I’m sorry you had to witness that outburst,” She manages to get out.

“Nah, it’s no problem.” Honestly, he’s surprised she hasn’t cracked sooner under all the pressure of making the Inquisition look respectable. “You want me to get you anything? Sugar? Alcohol? A fuck?”

Josephine snorts. “No, thank you.”

Bull shrugs, “Your loss.”

Josephine gives him a look. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very large ego?”

“I wasn’t talking about me, but thanks. I like to think it’s proportionate to the rest of me.”

Josephine shakes her head and wipes her eyes one more time, “Thank you, Bull. I’ll be fine. I just - it’s just been a very long, _long_ day.”

-

In Skyhold, flies were sometimes the first indication that something or someone has died.

The place is big enough and unfamiliar enough that it sometimes isn’t a surprise to find that someone’s cat had fallen into a crevice or some poor ass slipped on a loose rock and went _splat_.

Flies will, on the occasion, even herald in one of the Inquisitor’s new charges.

Dorian turns to Cassandra, “Your thoughts, Seeker.”

Cassandra grinds her teeth together as Lavellan clucks her tongue at a giant fleshy colored monstrosity that’s probably a nugalope of some sort, “No comment.”

“I can’t wait to see someone hose that thing down,” Dalish says, bumping Dorian’s shoulder with her own, “Do you think it shakes? Like normal nugs?”

“It wallows,” Dorian replies, “Based on precedent, it probably just wallows.”

“It could be worse,” Krem says, “I mean, the bog unicorn technically produces flies from its eye sockets.”

“Every time it shits it shits maggots,” Dalish says, “I wonder how that feels.”

“Let’s stop talking before I throw up,” Dorian says, then glances at Cassandra, “Or before Cassandra bursts a vein.”

“Stop talking,” Cassandra says and turns her back on the nugalope. Krem, Dalish, and Dorian raise their eyebrows. “Everyone just stop talking.”

She starts walking away.

The three of them exchange looks and Dorian hesitantly calls out to her, “You realize that it won’t go away if you ignore it, right? The smell will also probably just get worse.”

As if on cue, the thing lets out a might sounding fart and Dorian feels skin actually start to crawl.

-

“You do realize,” Lavellan says, “That I am the one who is sort of sometimes in charge here, right?”

“Sure, boss,” Bull says.

Solas hums.

“And you do realize,” Lavellan continues, swaying so that with every other step her shoulder hits either Bull or Solas, “That we all live in the same general vicinity, right?”

She sketches a wobbly circle with her fingers.

“Yeah,” Bull says. Solas hums again.

“So you know that you’re going to have to learn to get along, right?”

Neither of them say anything.

“ _Right_?” Lavellan presses, turning around to face them as she walks, “Did you - did you really think that you were going to go through the entire end of the world without ever learning how to get along?”

“It isn’t the _end of the world_ ,” Bull protests and Solas sighs a weary _da’len_.

“We’re adults and two very distinctly different individuals with different backgrounds,” Solas says, “We’re being civil. And we’re on working terms.”

“Right,” Bull says, “In that we’re working on the terms.”

“A work in progress.” Solas says after closing his eyes and muttering something that might be an explicative under his breath.

Lavellan frowns and falls back into place between them. Only an idiot would think she’s dropped the subject.

She seizes both their hands and yanks them until they’re all pressed together.

“Listen to me very closely,” She says, “I am in charge here, as we agreed. I don’t know how I came to be in charge, but I am. And I don’t think it’s a secret that I’m very fond of you both. So you’re going to speed up those working terms to civil terms. And I’m not going to hear excuses because I’m not going to have you two embarrass me by trying to subtly compare - as Sera would say - dick sizes while trying to - as Dorian would say - backseat drive the Inquisition for me. _Do you understand_?”

“Yes, boss,” Bull says because her nails are threatening to puncture skin and Solas nods.

There’s a quiet pop and Solas’ face goes a sort of green-gray that Bull associates with mostly dying things you fish out of a swamp.

“Yes,” Solas says.

Lavellan smiles and releases their hands, “Good. Look at you, agreeing on things already. Wonderful progress.”


	96. Chapter 96

“I saw a pair of tits flying about,” Lavellan says, and of course, Blackwall, Bull, Sera, and Krem _look_.

“Birds,” Cullen says, “She means _birds_.”

Lavellan looks profoundly disturbed, “Did you think I meant the fleshy ones? Why would those be flying? _Why would you look_? Does this mean that if you knew that I meant birds you wouldn’t have looked? Birds are wonderful! Why not?”

“You were talking about the birds,” Solas reminds her before she can get any farther.

“Right, I saw a pair of tits,” Lavellan continues, “And they were very pretty and I was wondering why there aren’t more nice birds instead of the angry ones flying around. Do you think that has something to do with the rifts?”

“It has caused a lot of animals to attack us,” Dorian muses, “It’s possible. I mean, I’ve never been attacked by a bear before but since coming here it’s gotten to the point where I know exactly who to call.”

“Cassandra,” Everyone says in unison.

Even Cassandra says her own name.

“Is that something we could get funding on researching?” Lavellan turns to Josephine and reaches out to rest her hand over Josephine’s, using her cow eyes. “Is it?”

“Possibly.” Josephine replies while glancing at everyone around her for help.

Everyone abruptly pretends to look very busy and engrossed in everything else. Josephine looks far from pleased about being left to Lavellan.

Cullen steps in, gamely, “I’m sure that if we can afford to fund - _my trainer_ ,” He says the name with a certain amount of unsure dread that they’ve all come to associate with the woman, “That we can fund research on the effects of the rifts on wildlife. Perhaps it will even give us a clue on how to counteract the rift’s or predict them.”

Lavellan beams.

“You realize,” Cassandra whispers to Cullen, “That this is just a ploy for her to bring more vermin in, right?”

Cullen snorts, “Yes, but are you going to say no to her? Besides, Josephine shouldn’t have to be the one to say no by herself.”

“It takes two to say no to Lavellan, unless you’re Cullen,” Varric says, “In which case one and a half because he usually needs someone to bring it up to him in the first place.”

-

Who would be stupid and suicidal enough to poison the Inquisitor’s stag?

Leliana isn’t sure - she didn’t realize that there would be anyone stupid enough to do it - she doesn’t even know where to start.

“The Inquisitor,” Cullen says, “Is displeased.”

“That’s a very understated way of saying close to having a panic attack, or otherwise, interrogating everything that breathes that she can get her eyes on,” Leliana snorts.

“Lavellan has declined the help of three veterinarians we have contacts with,” Josephine says, “I hate to be pessimistic, but will he even survive the night?”

“Is that something that we even want to consider?” The three of them look at each other, a tense silence stretched between them, before they all ultimately decide that _no_ , it is not a future they want to contemplate on.

“Dennet is doing what he can,” Cullen reports as he runs a hand through his hair and grimaces, “But he’s said it before and he’s saying again - as gently as he can to the Inquisitor’s face, and as firmly as he can to us - that he isn’t trained for dealing with _deer_ and a deer isn’t the same thing as a horse. He’s honestly flattered and honored that the Inquisitor apparently trusts him enough to watch over them and to ask him for advice but he isn’t a reliable source on this one.”

“We have reassured him that whatever the outcome is will have no bearing on his standing at the Inquisition, yes?” Josephine frowns and Cullen nods.

“It doesn’t matter what we say or put down on paper,” Leliana points out, “If he feels guilty about it or if anyone else thinks he’s responsible we can’t stop thoughts. And he is the Inquisition’s caretaker for the animals.”

“Is there anyone else we can ask that Lavellan would be willing to trust in the mean time?”

“Have we considered anyone Dalish?”

Cullen and Josephine both turn to Leliana. “They know stags and Lavellan might trust one of them better than anyone we can name.”

Someone pounds on the door, Cullen barks out - “ _Busy_.”

“Ser, report, urgent news!”

Cullen sighs, “Enter.”

A rather young looking recruit enters and gives a sharp salute, “Two more of the Inquisitor’s stags have fallen ill. The Inquisitor is - “

The three of them wait with baited breath as the recruit struggles to say it.

“Spit it out, then, just say it,” Cullen says and the recruit grimaces.

“The Inquisitor fainted, ser. She’s being taken to the infirmary now. We think she may have gotten poisoned too - she has a fever.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen turns to Josephine and Leliana, “This isn’t sabotage, it’s full out assassination attempts.”

“Finally,” Leliana says, “Something I know how to deal with.”

-

“You look like your mother,” Solas eventually says. Lavellan’s heart pangs.

“I do?”

She was beginning to forget.

They didn’t look like - they didn’t look like the people she knew, grew up with. Not laid out like that, in that light, stripped of everything they were.

They looked like strangers. She didn’t understand them.

In her head they are alive, moving about - screaming, dying. In the act. Not yet dead.

“Yes,” Solas says, sounding soft, wistful.

“How?” She demands.

He pauses and then slowly reaches out, the tips of his fingertips just ghosting along the ridge of her jaw.

“Here,” He says, tapping her chin, “But here, your father, I think.”

Her father’s face has been too bruised for telling.

“What else?” Lavellan whispers, trying to piece her parent’s faces together from her own. _Give me more of them_. What did they look like, to an outsider? What does her life look like, from someone who was not yet in it?

“Here,” Solas’ thumb touches the outside corner of her eye, “I think your mother.”

“The color, my father’s,” Lavellan says. “What of the shape?”

Solas shakes his head and she snatches at his wrist, holding his hand close to her face.

“What else? Who? Where?”

“Here,” Solas pauses and hesitates, “Another one - I do not know who’s.”

“Which body?” Lavellan whispers.

Solas is silent.

“Tell me,” She demands.

“The one marked for Sylaise in purple,” He says, “With the short hair. It looks like you share this.”

He runs his finger over her cheekbone.

“Cousins,” Lavellan says, and greedy she leans closer, angles her face towards the light. More. Where are the ghosts in her? Where can she find them to keep them with her?

Give me my ghosts. Give them back to me.


	97. Chapter 97

“To my cheating wife, I leave,” Bull deftly reaches over and pulls the note out of Lavellan’s hands before she can continue, “I was reading that. What did he leave?”

“Eyes closed,” Bull says, skimming the note then handing it over to Leliana, “You don’t need to know all that.”

“Are you sure?” Lavellan asks.

Bull nods and puts his hand on her head, deftly turning her around, “Why don’t you go check out the dirty love letters?”

“Is that a code?” Lavellan asks but trots off to where Dorian and Sera have been going through the large oak desk in the center of the room. “Also who puts a desk in the very center of a room? Such poor lighting. And that color of ink blotter with that kind of wood finish? Who does that?”

Bull turns to Leliana, “We’ve got to stop letting her hang around de Fer. She’s going to be ruined.”

“She’s right though, who even uses that shade of green with that shade of brown? No one,” Leliana replies, skimming the letter. “My, my, what have we here? Someone was awfully naughty. Attempting to skim off of the Inquisition coffers?”

“Keep reading,” Bull says.

Leliana’s eyebrows raise higher and higher.

Bull watches as Lavellan squeezes in between Sera and Dorian.

“She’s going to want to know about this,” Leliana says.

“Let’s make sure it’s legit first,” Bull replies. “We don’t need her knowing that one of ours might have slipped information if it isn’t true. We can’t ruin her completely.”

“Didn’t you know, Bull?” Leliana slides the letter into her coat pocket, “All the best things are ruined completely. That’s how you know they’re the best.”

“Not this one,” Bull says, “Not this one.”

-

He hadn’t meant to scare the child, but intentions mean very little in the face of reality.

“Don’t cry,” Lavellan says, lowering herself the boy’s level, “The Commander isn’t actually scary. He just looks that way when he’s being made fun of and he’s cross about it because he can’t do anything. Normally he has a really nice face. Freckles and pretty spots of color in his eyes.”

Cullen feels the tips of his ears go a little red.

“And he blushes very pretty, too,” Lavellan continues and then turns and beams at him, “See? Not very scary at all.”

The boy snorts, “Boys aren’t pretty.”

“Sure they are,” Lavellan says, “Cullen is pretty. So is Dorian. And Krem.”

Lavellan pauses, “I know an awful lot of pretty boys.”

Blackwall coughs a laugh into his fist. Cullen ignores him in favor of trying to signal the Inquisitor to return the boy to his mother so they can leave. There are more important matters to take care of and this isn’t at all about the fact that Cullen can literally feel his soldier’s respect for him spiraling down the drain.

“And pretty girls, but also handsome girls,” Lavellan taps her cheek with her finger and turns, “Cullen is Vivienne handsome or pretty? Beautiful?”

“I don’t think it’s my place to say,” Cullen says, “Inquisitor.”

He taps his wrist.

“Oh, right, meetings,” Lavellan blinks and turns back to the boy, “I forgot what I was saying.”

The boy stares at Lavellan, either incredulous that the Inquisitor of Thedas is so - flighty - or that she took the time to speak with him.

Lavellan aims her smile at the boy and the boy looks absolutely bowled over.

“Well, I suppose it must not have mattered too much if I forgot and no one’s coming to yell at me about it. I hope you have a wonderful day. Stay in school, do what your parents tell you, and leave flowers for tiny caves if strange voices tell you to.”

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” Cullen groans because they actually don’t need this.

“Keep an open mind!” Lavellan continues as Cullen guides her up and shepherds her off, “Offer Qunari sugary foods whenever you get the chance! Don’t aim flashlights at elf eyes! Don’t put your finger in every hole you find!”

-

They say that everyone who looks into their family history will find a secret sooner or later, Lavellan and the rest of her race have spent literal  years pouring over their family histories. Their lives are dependent on it. They trace their lineage as obsessively as they trace their vallaslin.

Their roots are everything to them. Lavellan is not ashamed of this. There is beauty and honor in it. But it is also important to look ahead at the budding leaves - something she thinks that the Dalish can easily forget when living with one foot in the very heart-breath of a moment and the rest of their bodies clinging to the past.

But this, this is the sort of secret she doesn’t think they would have ever found out.

Perhaps it is one they should have never known about.

She traces her face in the mirror, “There are ways to reverse tattoos among the shemlen.”

“Yes,” Bull says. “They hurt. They leave marks. Is it worth it?”

She turns to him, “Am I slave?”

“No,” Bull says.

She turns back to her reflection. She can’t tell Skinner or Dalish about this, or any of the other Dalish elves she knows.

It would destroy them - tear them apart. They’re already so broken and fragmented. And she knows part of it is her doing.

Should this truth by revealed?

Lavellan’s throat feels so bitter.

She touches her chin, the frame of her lips.

“I am a slave,” She whispers.

“ _No_ ,” Bull repeats, stronger. He is behind her now, a mass of grey skin and dark cotton in the mirror that frames her body. “You aren’t a slave.”

“To the past. To lies. Ghosts,” She says, tracing the lines down her throat, over her collar bones, around her neck, shoulders, breasts, ribs. “I am a slave.”

“They’re the marks of your gods.” Bull rests his hands, eight fingers, two palms, on her shoulders over her own hands. “You love them.”

Lavellan laughs.

“But do they love me?”

“Does it matter? Does any of it matter? Make it mean something else,” Bull says, “The original meaning was lost. It can stay that way. Make it new.”

His hands are so warm, and she stares at where her skin disappears underneath this.

The truth will be set free.


	98. Chapter 98

She’d only given in because she was lonely.

That is not something many people think of, when they think about her. She’s surrounded by people who love, respect, idolize, and adore her at every hour of the day. Lavellan doesn’t even sneeze without at least ten people hanging on to her every breath.

There is a certain kind of loneliness that can only be found when in full view of the world.

“Are you sure?” Leliana asks because Lavellan is a charming girl and she needs no help in finding friends or company.

Lavellan shrugs, a defeated thing.

“You do not have to, if you do not want to,” Leliana says. This is a thing she says often, it is worth repeating for all that Lavellan doesn’t listen. For all that it is only halfway true.

Lavellan has done many things she hasn’t wanted to do.

The Inquisition may be built on wants and dreams, but no one ever said they were Lavellan’s..

“It’s one dinner date,” Lavellan says, “It can’t be that bad.”

“I can’t send Bull or Dorian or anyone else in with you,” Leliana says. “Josephine and I tried to figure out a way - but it all just comes out unfavorably bad.”

Lavellan shrugs again, “I can handle myself.”

“If you’re certain,” Leliana says.

Perhaps, this might have once been false bravado. But Lavellan has been sharpened by all those things she didn’t want to do but must. Lavellan, Leliana thinks, is a knife that wields itself.

When she says she can handle herself, Leliana believes her.

At the same time -

“You don’t have to do this, regardless of what you say or do - I think I speak for more than myself when I say that we care for you no matter what,” Leliana tries to reach over and take Lavellan’s hand. Lavellan deftly and quietly moves her hand away from Leliana’s.

“I think,” Lavellan’s voice is soft, fluttering and lonesome, “That we both know that isn’t as true as we would like for it to be.”

-

Cassandra had gone to use the restroom and she must have come back to the wrong room on the way back because she can’t possibly imagine how she left a calm waiting room and returned to a desk on fire, a broken fish tank, and a hole in the wall where there used to be a window.

Cassandra goes to the reception desk, leans over, and reaches down.

It is,unsurprisingly, not the receptionist she pulls up.

It is a man wearing the band of a Red Templar, looking incredibly frightened and ready to shit himself.

“Which way did they go and where are the people who actually work here?”

The people who were here when Cassandra came in with Lavellan and Bull.

Cassandra is, technically, Lavellan’s legal guardian via the extremely shitty paper work that lists Cassandra as Lavellan’s arresting officer.

Bull is here for moral support.

There are just some exams that people need that the Inquisition doesn’t have the equipment and doctors for yet.

And apparently Lavellan has never had a mammogram.

The Red Templar points.

Cassandra sighs because of course it’s not through the hole in the wall. Somehow it’s through the perfectly intact door to the exam rooms.

“Stay here,” Cassandra says, dropping the fool, not looking to see if he obeys.

Leliana has at least twenty under cover agents in the parking lot and surrounding buildings. He wouldn’t get very far.

In fact, if he did, she thinks she would be more impressed than anything.

She’d still go after him herself, of course.

But she’d be a little impressed as she did it.

-

She couldn’t believe it. Was it really him?

“You’re wrong,” The words slip through her mouth and everyone is arguing - loud and angry and panicking.

The day started off so well. All of them - together again after so long and it didn’t matter the circumstances that brought them together was the fact that the world wanted to tear what they built apart, but they were all together again and it didn’t hurt today and _it was all so promising_.

And then this, and this, and this, and this, and him.

“You’re wrong,” She repeats, voice sounding so far away and soft, she turns and searches out eyes - Cole, Bull, Josephine, the ones who listen.

They are all looking and arguing with each other.

She can feel the world falling away and fast.

She turns and Sera’s eyes meet hers - the one who does not listen - and Lavellan can’t take what she sees there so she looks away again.

It was him, but it couldn’t have been him.

She lost her arm.

Does that mean he won?

Lavellan feels herself falling away, very fast, into and out of her own self.

What is her self anymore?

“You’re wrong,” Lavellan says to everyone who isn’t listening. It was him, but it wasn’t him.

-

“Why is no one talking about her twin?” Varric asks, because he had been outside the morgue when they went to claim the bodies. They talk about her mom and dad and uncles and everyone in between. But no one says a thing about the body that drove her over the edge.

Bull and Cullen exchange looks over his head.

Varric does not appreciate this.

“Because she isn’t ready to hear anything from a stranger’s mouth,” Solas says from the back seat.

Lavellan is not in this car.

Lavellan is in shock, back at the hotel room with Cole and has locked herself in the bathroom.

The only reason why none of them are with her was because Cole told them they weren’t helping and Bull confirmed it - and given that she’s currently nonverbal that’s the best they’re going to get to _go away_.

Bull pulls the car over.

“We didn’t know him,” Solas says, “And she does not want words of condolences from those who have no idea what she has lost. How many times did you feel protective whenever someone tried to speak to you of Anders?”

Varric’s chest recoils from the name - he can somewhat understand what Solas means.

Anders is a private feeling - shared by those who knew him.

“She didn’t lose an Anders,” Varric says because he has to say something.

“No,” Solas agrees, “But she lost a part of her heart all the same.”


	99. Chapter 99

Everything about her was a lie, and Lavellan is amazed that it took everyone this long to find out. That it took _her_ this long to find out.

“That’s not true,” Cole whispers.

“What would you know of me?” Lavellan whispers, “You have never known me. You have never seen me.”

“I see you,” Cole protests and Lavellan pushes him away - out of this moment. It is not his to have. It’s hers, hers, hers.

Selfish and true.

There are no Gods - her entire life’s devotion gone. Were her people ever _free_? Was her race born for slavery? War? Extinction? Made only to die?

How much suffering can a person take? How much before it is enough?

There are no Gods, the sky is empty.

What else was wrong? Her skin feels hot and cold at once, shame and humiliation. Was anything about her ever real? It fades away, now.

What is the point of Lavellan? All of them dead - clinging to a past that could never have been right. Their sayings, their stories, their truths - from the way they cast magic to the way they are married and even the way they shit.

All of it lies.

Abelas was right. She _is_ one of the shemlen.

A hand, impossibly warm around hers and she looks up and Dorian’s face is bronze and beautiful and bold.

She takes her hand away.

How many times had she lectured him on slavery and blood and racism? How many times has she preached at him?

His voice sounds so far away - Tevene, trying to comfort her. The words sound so similar to hers, maybe his are more true. A thousand stings to one open wound.

Lavellan breathes and it’s habit to try and knot her fingers together because when you panic your magic goes bad so put your hands together, da’len, put your hands together, keep it closed and then she lets out a breath of air that could be laughter -

She doesn’t _have_ hands anymore.

She has one hand.

Singular.

Because _she couldn’t keep her magic together_.

She laughs. It sounds very far away.

How much suffering can a person take?

-

He was terrified of small spaces and she knew that and she has to get him out of here right now.

Lavellan doesn’t know where to put her hands - nowhere, ideally, but Cullen doesn’t seem to be able to get moving on his own.

“It’s the demons, Cullen,” She keeps her voice as low and steady as she can, hands where he can see them. “It isn’t real, I promise it isn’t.”

Cullen’s prayers are a feverish blur under his breath as he squeezes his eyes closed, hands clasped together so tight that it looks painful. He won’t look at her and she doesn’t want to touch him but she might have to get to get him to open his eyes and _see_.

She’d cast dispel on him but she’s afraid of what kind of effects it would have.

“Cullen,” She says and because she doesn’t know what else to do she starts singing and hopes that it doesn’t trigger anything. She starts singing, as low and soft as she can because they aren’t out of danger yet and she needs him here. She needs her Commander just as much as she needs Cullen to be okay.

Lavellan can’t fight the way out for the both of them.

Despite what people might think of her, Lavellan is more than aware of the many, many, _many_ ways in which she’s lacking as a leader and person in general.

But here is what Lavellan can do.

She can stay.

(For once in her life - she stays. _She wasn’t there for the others when they died._

She’ll be here for Cullen to live.)

-

When he lifted his head, she barely recognized him for the bruises he can tell by the look of surprise and pity on her face.

“Blackwall,” She breathes and he looks away. Kindness hurts more than people think. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

(He thinks he will always resent her this, just a little. It will never go away. It’s that grain of sand that makes a pearl.)

She sits on his bed and her hand is cold -  magic - on his skin. He ignores her.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” She says.

“No, you didn’t ask me anything,” He replies.

She commanded.

“No,” She agrees. “I didn’t. Why did you do it?”

“Does it matter?” He asks.

She’s quiet and she presses her hand flat against his cheek - a shock of cold and sharp pain as she heals him.

“No,” She says after a moment. “It doesn’t. You don’t want it to. You don’t want it to matter. It should. But you don’t want it to. So no, it doesn’t.”

-

“She really stands out in a crowd, doesn’t she?” Dagna muses.

“What was it that gave her away?” Rylen snorts, “The tattoos? The glowing hand? The fact that she’s sitting on a one-eyed Qunari’s shoulders?”

“Waving a plastic banana nailed to a long stick?” Krem throws in.

“Aside from all that,” Dagna says, “Come on, guys. Don’t be dumb.”

Rylen rolls his eyes.

“It’s like - I don’t know how you could miss her. I feel like I’ve known her my entire life. I’ve been with the Inquisition less than three months,” Dagna says.

“She has a way of getting to you like that,” Krem agrees. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

“It’s part of the reason why she’s a good commander,” Rylen says. “Even though you forget she’s the commanding officer here.”

“It’s amazing,” Dagna says. “Do you think it’s on purpose?”

“That would require the kind of calculation that I don’t want to know if she’s capable of,” Rylen says, “Part of the reason why she’s like that is because she’s - _natural_.”

“Natural,” Krem snorts, “The way you say natural _isn’t natural_.”

“Would you like a go at phrasing it better, Tevinter B?”

“I came down from Tevinter first! I don’t get why I’m Tevinter B. It makes no sense.”

“Tell that to Dorian,” Dagna snickers into her hands, “Please. I want to watch. It’d be hilarious. Try pulling the age card. _Please pull the age card_.”

“I can’t believe I thought you were a decent person.”


	100. Chapter 100

The urge to interrupt him before he finished talking was overwhelming, Dorian actually doesn’t know how either he or Vivienne refrained this long.

“That is, pardon my language darling, _complete and utter bullshit_ ,” Vivienne says and Dorian nods along in agreement.

Dorian is pretty sure that there are only three occasions on which he and Vivienne agree.

One, the rift is Bad - capital B - and needs to be fixed as soon as possible and probably sooner than that.

Two, matters of fashion and dignity in which the Inquisition has more of the latter rather than the former.

Three, Solas doesn’t know _shit_ and here’s all the reasons they can think of together why.

Solas looks incredibly sour as Dorian and Vivienne exchange soft fist bumps.

“I have studied the Fade for _years_ ,” Solas says.

“And we’ve gone to actual school,” Vivienne replies, “Certifications and everything. Studies. Controls in place, strict parameters of study and verification. You understand our skepticism of your self-taught assumptions.”

“There are things which you cannot learn through the narrow minded thinking the Circles perpetuate,” Solas says.

Dorian hums because he’s not going to step in uninvited and Vivienne has this. Dorian is here to make sure they don’t kill each other and to shore up his own defenses for the next time they argue with him.

He waves at Cullen who’s hovering in the doorway.

“Bad time?” Cullen mouths at him.

Dorian shrugs, “The usual.”

Cullen sighs and turns around. It probably couldn’t have been too important if Cullen was willing to just walk off.

Dorian starts texting Lavellan to give her a heads up that Solas is probably going to be in a bad mood the rest of the day. He’s yet to win an argument against Vivienne without outside help. It’s hilarious, actually.

Lavellan texts him back a string of characters that give off the impression of Lavellan whining and stomping her foot without actually expressing any of this in a way that’s possible to understand intellectually.

Her ability to communicate across platforms is frankly astounding, and it’s like the physical barrier isn’t there at all.

-

They couldn’t be allowed to fight, he had to think of a way to stop it, and the most Cullen could think of was pushing Lavellan between them because he panicked and he’s not good at this sort of thing when it isn’t a brawl between soldiers.

Lavellan takes this with all the grace that could be expected from her.

She almost lands on her face but then cartwheels into a hand stand, looking befuddled as to how she suddenly got turned upside down and then she glares up at Cassandra and Leliana.

“You two can’t be fighting,” Lavellan says, pointing with her foot.

It’s a good thing she’s wearing shorts today.

“If you two are fighting,” Lavellan says, not even wobbling a little bit as she turns on her hands, “Then who’s doing things? The Inquisition isn’t productive without you two. You’re each half of the Inquisition. The brawn and the brain, as Varric says.”

Cassandra’s face is spectacular.

Cullen looks away and Josephine gives him a thumbs up, “Smart move, Commander.”

“Desperate, more like,” Cullen mutters, “We’re very lucky that the Inquisitor is so coordinated and - is it charismatic? Is that the right word for it?”

“Does it matter what the right word is?” Josephine refills her glass of water. “It works.”

“True,” Cullen turns back to watching the spectacle of Lavellan lecturing Cassandra and Leliana upside down and gesturing with her flip flops. “This isn’t where I thought I would be.”

“Is it where anyone ever thought they’d be?” Josephine replies. “All things considered, it isn’t so bad.”

“No,” Cullen agrees and takes out his phone to film this because no one is going to believe him if he doesn’t have proof of it happening, “It isn’t.”

-

As the prison gate closed behind him, he saw someone waiting for him.

“Lieutenant Aclassi,” Blackwall nods.

“Tom Rainer,” The man nods back and gestures for Blackwall to get into the back of the truck, “I’m here to escort you back to Skyhold pending further action.”

He knew it was her. Blackwall - Rainer knew it was her the second they started to unlock his cell door. Who else?

He hates her for this. It would have been what he deserved.

“She can’t face me,” He says as he gets into the car, “I’m surprised she sent you.”

“She didn’t,” Krem says and before he can do anything, Krem gets into the car after him, closes the door, and Stitches guns the engine from the front.

Krem’s fist is in his shirt collar and shaking him, “Listen to me very closely.”

Skinner slides her arm around his throat from the back, pinning him to the seat.

“She didn’t send us,” Krem says, “The Chief sent us, and even if he didn’t we probably would’ve come on our own. You’re right. She can’t face you. She doesn’t know how. All she knows is that you were her friend, someone she could trust. She doesn’t know what to do from here. I don’t blame her. She still thinks you’re worth her time, did you know that? Right now everyone we know is arguing for her to put you back where she just got you out of, or to put you in Skyhold’s own prison. Right now everyone we know wants you to suffer for what you’ve done to her.”

“Sure,” Skinner says, “Some of them respect what you wanted to do. But your timing is shit. And the way you did it was worse. Did you think it was like ripping off a band aide? You were _wrong_ , shem. Hurt still hurts even if you do the hurting out of sight.”

“We came here because the Chief didn’t trust himself not to fuck you up if he saw you first,” Krem says, “We’re professionals. The Inquisitor wants you in one piece. We’ll bring you to her that way. We know how to keep our shit together. But still - I want you to know that you’ve got a lot to answer for. And no matter what she says about you, you’re going to have to start over with everyone. Not even start over, but build up from a negative impression. And you will have to.”

“She won’t kill you,” Skinner says. “She _loves_ too much for that.”

“It would be better if she loved you less,” Krem’s gaze is pitying, “What she’s going to ask you to do is harder and probably more painful than ordering you to die.”


	101. Chapter 101

“There’s a surprise for you in the garage,” Dorian says.

“Is it a lady?” Bull asks.

“Is it a man?” Varric says.

“Is it the sweet release of death?” Krem says, “Because it looks like he could use that.”

“Is it something that belongs in the garage?” Cullen asks, because he can only hope. It’s unlikely that it will be, but he can always just throw it out there.

“Define belongs,” Dorian replies, tapping his finger against his cheek, “Technically _no_ , but also yes.”

“Is it Lavellan?” Bull asks.

“Is she alive?” Varric asks.

“Is _she_ waiting for the sweet release of death, too?” Krem asks.

“Is she doing something appropriate for a garage?” Cullen asks because he’s going to stretch this small amount of hope as far as it will go before it, inevitably, blows up in his face.

“I’m going to need you to define appropriate,” Dorian says, frowning. “You know how she is and how words are and how the world just kind of warps and falls apart in the face of her everything. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Point is, there’s something waiting for you in the garage and you will be surprised.”

“Good or bad surprised?” Bull asks.

“Dead or alive surprised?” Varric asks.

“The release of death or the trap of murder surprise?” Krem asks.

“Was it something you could have dealt with?” Cullen asks.

Dorian throws his head back and laughs, clapping his hands together once before completely sobering up and pointing at him.

“I am not paid to do your job for you. You aren’t even paid to to your job for you. Yes it was something I could have dealt with, no, I did not deal with it. Your move and good luck, I’m going to go find Blackwall and see if he’ll let me test things on him. Now _he’s_ paid exactly for that kind of thing.”

-

“We’re going to have to burn and maybe salt the earth in the southwest quad,” A scout reports. “There’s a growth.”

“It’s a garden, it’s supposed to grow,” Leliana says.

“The growth is actively killing everything else. The gardeners can’t keep it pruned. They don’t know how to keep it under control. It’s started taking apart the fence and invading other gardens.”

Everyone turns to Lavellan.

“Inquisitor, what did you bury in the garden?”

Lavellan looks up from where she’s been methodically shredding classified documents into little squares for the past half hour. No one has asked her to do this. No one really asks her to do much of anything she actually does. Her eyes flick up to the ceiling and she hums, starting to sway a bit before shrugging.

“I don’t know,” Lavellan says and then she resumes ripping paper.

The assembled advisors all turn to look at each other, making mutual eye contact before turning back to her.

“You don’t _know_?” Josephine repeats, sounding dumbfounded.

Lavellan shakes her head, “I don’t know.”

“Then why did you plant it?” Leliana asks.

“Because then I _thought_ I’d know. I _still_ don’t know, but I’m waiting for the flowers. And Dagna likes to experiment with it. They’re friends. I think. I mean, she talks like they’re friends. But Dagna also talks that way about my nugs and I’m pretty sure my nugs can’t even see her properly.”

The advisors turn to look at each other again, making vague gestures at each other with their eyebrows.

Cullen turns back to the scout.

“Please instruct the gardeners and landscapers to transfer everything in the surrounding gardens away. Consider that quad garden for the Inquisitor’s personal use and study.”

“Isn’t _everything_?” The scout replies, incredulous and Cullen sighs in response.

“More than _usual_.”

“Yessir,” The scout says, looking entirely too skeptical to be respectful. But she turns around anyway and leaves to, presumably, relay orders.

“Sometimes,” Leliana says, “You just need to know when to cut your losses.”

-

“What have you done with my pills?” Vivienne demands, “I need them. I was closer to finishing them than you ever got to that farce of a study with runes.”

“Rude,” Dorian says. “Rude on so many levels. And I was incredibly close. If only it weren’t for that meddling scout and their terrible balance.”

“They had one eye and were just out of the infirmary,”  Vivienne snorts, “And what kind of excuse is that. If you were truly close your research wouldn’t have been totally lost just because of some scout running into you.”

“Ignoring your flagrant slander and outright most definitely sabotage of my work, _for the moment_ , I’ve done nothing to your pills,” Dorian replies. “Have you asked Solas?”

“Not yet,” Vivienne says, “As if that man has ever honestly answered a question in his life. Or straightforwardly.”

“Point to the woman who lies for a living,” Dorian draws a check in the air.

Vivienne gives him an incredibly unimpressed look.

“If you didn’t take the pills I was working on - and let’s face it, Solas hasn’t got it in him to sabotage our work _yet_ \- then who did?”

“Have you asked Lavellan?” Dorian says after a moment of thought, “Considering she’ll put anything shaped like anything in her mouth just for the sake of trying it once?”

Vivienne’s face is the exact image of a swear word. It’s the closest Dorian’s ever seen her to losing her composure.

Dorian has his phone out to snap a picture but Vivienne’s hand grabs his phone and forces it face down on the table.

“Spoil sport,” Dorian mutters.

“Be glad I don’t break it,” Vivienne says, striding off to presumably find the Inquisitor. “And your calculations are off. You forgot to factor in, darling. Maybe you should go back to school for that.”

Dorian turns to his white board and swears.

“I just didn’t get to that part yet!” He yells back, “I would have gotten it one way or another, with or without you!”

“Of course, darling,” Vivienne says just as the doors close behind her, “I’m sure you would have also remembered to factor out that last x, too.”

Dorian turns back to the whiteboard and throws the marker at it.

“Traitor.”


	102. Chapter 102

“Sera, why arrows?” Lavellan asks, leaning her head on her palms as she watches Sera inspect her bow, “Surely there are more modern things for you to use to hurt people with.”

“Ever try pulling an arrow out of your asshole?” Sera asks, checking her sights, “There’s a reason why it isn’t called an arrow vibe.”

“A what vibe?” Lavellan wrinkles her nose.

Sera makes a helpful gesture.

“Oh, it’s a sex thing,” Lavellan says, and then turns to Krem who’s been napping with his head down next to them for the past half hour since Bull deposited him there.

(Bull smacks Krem’s back and Krem lets out one long rattling groan. Bull shrugs. “He’ll be fine. Just don’t touch him for a bit. Skinner did this thing to him. It’ll wear off eventually. Or kick in. I don’t know, it doesn’t work on me the same way.”)

“I would have gotten it eventually,” Lavellan says to him. Krem doesn’t say anything back. Sera snorts.

“So arrows because they hurt?” Lavellan asks.

“Arrows because they fuck you up,” Sera nods, “Because bam arrow to the face says more than bam bullet to the face. And it’s cooler. Like fwoosh instead of blam-blam-blam. All mysterious and shit. I mean - why do you think people go all knife in the dark?”

“Because it’s practical?”

“Yeah, sure there’s that if you want to be boring about it.” Sera rolls her eyes and starts folding her bow back to put in its case. “It looks cool.”

“Where do you even learn archery in the inner city ghetto?” Lavellan asks.

“What, like it’s hard? Big stick, little stick, string. Like a sling shot but sideways.” Sera waves the half-folded bow at Lavellan, “And it isn’t an elfy thing.”

-

“I can’t say I’m surprised that you murdered him,” Cullen says, “I’m just surprised you were so sloppy about it.”

Leliana looks as offended and insulted as he’s ever seen her.

“I was pressed for time,” Leliana says, “And all things considered, I think I did a better job than anyone else would have been able to, given that my only warning was _the Inquisitor dies at midnight_.”

“I’m just saying that you’ve created an incredibly high standard for yourself,” Cullen kneels down slowly to start checking the body for any identifying markers. The Inquisition and Inquisitor have so many enemies it’s hard to tell where the assassins come from anymore. “And that this time you may have been just shy of it.”

“We’ll see how much better you do on the next one,” Leliana sniffs, “Then we can compare.”

“I never said I could do better,” Cullen protests. “You’re being very - touchy about this.”

“You’re being very picky about how I go about doing my job,” Leliana retorts, “Check his back pocket.”

“Do I have to?” Cullen grimaces, but rolls the body over and sighs as he slowly opens the pocket of the man’s blood soaked pants. “You had to make it messy.”

“I was _pressed for time_. Just be glad I made it look anything other than our Inquisitor dead.”

“Again, thank you, I’m just - you know what, never mind. I don’t even know why I open my mouth.”

“You ruin such a lovely image when you do.”

Cullen pauses to glare up at her. Leliana smirks.

“It really depends on what you’re saying though. Some of our employees like to record you barking orders. Or grunting.”

Cullen blanches.

“Did you have to tell me that?”

“Did you have to tell me I did a shit job?”

“Again, _I never said that I was just_ \- forget it. Just forget it.”

-

“You’ve only heard his point of view,” Fenris eventually says to the girl with the fidgeting hands, “You never asked for mine.”

It is hard for him to imagine that this girl was once Inquisitor of Thedas - first of to wear that title in centuries. First to elf, first woman, first mage - all in one.

She is a small thing, made smaller by the dirt that clings to her skin and her hunched shoulders and empty spaces. Fenris knows, instantly, how Hawke would have - must have - felt about her. Hawke has always had a soft spot for dangerous things in poorly disguised bodies.

“Hawke was an idiot,” Fenris says, “And we all knew it. Hawke was also brave and a meddler. Hawke thought Corypheus was the fault of Malcom, of the Hawke lineage. It takes a certain sort of self-absorption to think such. As if the Wardens weren’t the ones to coerce him into doing so.”

Lavellan’s fingers pick at the frayed edge of what could vaguely be recognized as a jacket.

“Corypheus was not Hawke’s responsibility,” Fenris says, “But Hawke chose to take that burden anyway, because Hawke likes to meddle and go places uninvited. And Hawke is not _your_ responsibility.”

“But Varric - “

“Varric,” Fenris interrupts, “Knows better. Varric doesn’t blame you. Varric wasn’t there. Varric cannot judge you for what he has not done himself.”

Her eyes are solemn, deep things.

“I took Hawke from you.”

“Hawke took Hawke from me,” Fenris replies. “From us all. It is easy to blame you, but Hawke has never made our lives easy. We do not blame you. Varric does not blame you. All these years, Varric has loved you in that very peculiar way Varric loves all of his strays.”

“I’m not a stray,” Lavellan says.

“You smell like one,” Fenris replies and points her towards his shower, “Fix that. I am going to call Varric and tell him you are here. He worries for you. They all do.”

“They shouldn’t,” Lavellan says.

“No,” Fenris agrees. This woman destroyed a would-be God and tore down an entire Tevinter army. Fenris respects that. She’s done a lot of things Fenris respects. A lot of people respect. One would think that those who were with her when she did these things would remember them. “But they do anyway. Such is the nature of the bonds we make with others, or so I’m told. Shower. A long one.”

“I’ll mess up your bathroom.”

“Merrill likes to clean. Often without asking permission. It will be fine,” Fenris says. “In fact, do me the favor of using up all the lavender soap. She knows I hate it and puts it everywhere she can anyway.”


	103. Chapter 103

Lavellan doesn’t throw the first punch but she does throw the first chair of the night; which was impressive considering the proportions of the chair compared to her. And the fact that it was bolted down; most likely to prevent such things from happening.

“I don’t know why we’re fighting,” Lavellan says, picking up another chair, “ _Why_ are we fighting? _Who_ are we fighting? Are in the right?”

“If you don’t know why are you fighting?” Rocky asks as he moves underneath tables, planting mini firecrackers.

“Because the Iron Bull is, too.” Lavellan answers.

They can hear his booming laughter while fighting five men at once from across the bar, he’s got a dwarf swinging off of his bicep, and a whiskey bottle in one hand. And a nose bleed.

“That’s some good shit,” Rocky says, taking a swig out of his beer can. “You caught on quick.”

“Real loyal,” Skinner appears next to Lavellan, “I think we started it though.”

Lavellan looks puzzled as she throws a barstool in a random direction before folding her arms and frowning in contemplation, face twisted up in thought as she tries to puzzle out how they got to this point. She picks up a serving try and tucks it under one of her arms.

After a long moment of contemplation - in which Krem and Skinner work together to keep her safe, and Rocky turns a bowl of peanuts into lethal projectiles, Lavellan narrows her eyes and looks at Krem.

“ _We_ started it?”

“Yeah,” Krem laughs as he ducks a punch and retaliates with a head butt. “We _definitely_ started this shit. We’re probably in the wrong, too. But we definitely started it for sure.”

“Oh,” Lavellan lowers the serving tray she had been about to toss before she got to thinking. She frowns. Skinner punches a guy who was about to smash a bottle over Lavellan’s head while she thinks. “So...we’re ending it?”

All of the chargers present cheer and burst into song.

Bull’s voice is the loudest over all of them as Lavellan resumes throwing things, staring with picking up Rocky and throwing him at Grim, “That’s my girl!”

-

“If you get me his phone number, I may reconsider,” Dorian says.

Bull looks unimpressed. “I’m not picking up guys for you. I’m just here to take you back to the hotel because the Boss is busy trying to figure out where the hell Sera and Cole disappeared to, and they wouldn’t let her into this place because she doesn’t have a valid ID aside from her glowing hand.”

“You have to admit, that’s one form of ID you can’t copy. She never needs to worry about identity theft,” Dorian says. “No, in all seriousness, get me his number.”

Dorian lurches up and grabs Bull by one of the horns, yanking him down and pointing, “That asshole has been my _rival_ in research for the past five years of academia. He has stolen _half_ of my research grants from me and it’s not even because he has two brain cells to rub together, Bull. Do you understand me? It’s because he kisses ass and people don’t like me because I tell it how it is.”

Bull snorts, “Sure you do. Let go of the horn.”

Dorian lets go. “I need his number so I can have Sera _do things_.”

“Do things,” Bull repeats, looking even more unimpressed. “This is because of research rivalry.”

“It’s important, Bull. For _science_ ,” Dorian says, glaring across the room, “My pride. My integrity. My peace of mind. To tell Tevinter, as a collective whole, to shove it up their ass.”

“Oh, well if it’s to tell Tevinter to shove it up their ass,” Bull says, “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”

“Didn’t you know that every time I succeed at something it’s a giant middle finger to Tevinter?”

-

Sometimes he hears Mythal speak to him - he isn’t sure if he’s just making it up, or if some part of her was transferred over.

 _“How could I abandon my children?_ ”

Easily, he thinks. So very easily.

Did he not abandon his own? His allies, his guards, his friends, his lovers, his people - the people he was meant to serve and protect. Did he not abandon them?

“ _You came back_.”

Under duress. Because he was forced to. Because one of those children made him - forced him to look into her eyes and see what he had done. And with every breath she forced him to watch, listen, _live_ what he had abandoned their kind to.

They are not even the same race anymore. Too many differences between the dragon and the lizard - watered down and diminished things that they are.

But dragons, too, are dying out. Corrupted and weakened and outmatched by time.

How could he have abandoned them? Easily. Shamefully.

With the thought that he would never wake again to see what he had wrought. He had dreamed them a better word, he just deigned not to share it.

-

“You make me feel like I’m not good enough,” Dorian admits.

Lavellan turns, surprise and denial on her mouth but Dorian smiles at her because it hurts and it’s true.

“You make a lot of people feel that way, you know,” Dorian says, “And it isn’t your fault. It just - the way you look at everyone is so different. And it’s like - sometimes, I want to be the one you look at in certain ways, even though I know everyone thinks that way about the way you look at me and it’s all just a huge mess of _she looks at that person like they’re the world and I’m not it_.”

“I love you,” Lavellan’s voice is soft, “I do.”

“I know, love,” Dorian runs his hand down her arm, “I just - I just wanted to tell you. Sometimes I look at you and the way you look at Cole or Bull and it’s incredible. Like you’ve made a little house with each of them and I wasn’t invited. Like mine is only a bus stop on the way. I know it isn’t true. It’s just the way you look at people sometimes. And then I think that I should do better. Be better.”

Lavellan’s face is horrified.

“I don’t want you to think that,” She whispers, “Dorian, _I do love you_. I love all of you.”

“And it’s because you love all of us that we all want to be better than we are,” Dorian says, “It’s usually a good thing. How can we stand at your side and then not do anything? You’re going to move us all to revolution, you know. Even if we weren’t revolutionaries to start with.”


	104. Chapter 104

“He wanted to say how much he loved him, but he didn’t know.”

“Boys are weird,” Lavellan says.

Cole looks troubled.

“You’re not exactly a boy, but you are still weird,” Lavellan clarifies, giving Cole a small smile.

Cole looks slightly less troubled.

“Boys are weird about love,” Lavellan continues, “Watch.”

Lavellan leans over the railing - Cole immediately reaches out and grabs her belt and plants his feet as she leans much farther over the railing than anyone really should - she looks around before her face lights up and she waves up, “Dalish! I love you!”

Dalish waves back at her from where she’d been talking with Painter, voice echoing a little in the stone room “I love you, too da’len!”

Lavellan and Dalish sign at each other for a few minutes before Lavellan leans back and Dalish resumes her conversation with Painter.

“See, no troubles. I love her, she loves me, it’s all good. We don’t make a fuss.”

Lavellan leans again and calls down to where Solas and Adan are quietly discussing something over their print outs, gesturing at slides and computer screens.

“Hahren! _Hahren_! Up here! Look up! Here!” She waves at him until he looks up. “Hahren, I love you!”

Solas’ face does what can only be described as a series of impressive gymnastic moves before it settles on faintly pleased.

“Thank you,” He says.

Lavallen turns to look at Cole over her shoulder. “See? Boys are dumb about it. Dorian and Cullen love each other, Rylen and Cullen love each other, Varric loves Fenris and Anders,  but none of them are going to say it to each other’s faces because they think it’s _weird_. As if love were for people who have sex or something. Gross.”

“Gross,” Cole parrots, “What about the Iron Bull?”

“He’d say it all the time if people didn’t get weirded out by it,” Lavellan says. “You know who’s a boy and good at saying he loves people? Krem. I’m pretty sure it’s because Krem is a Charger and the Chargers aren’t weird.”

“Does that mean we’re Chargers, too?”

“Yes, but I think that’s because of a different reason.”

-

She watched. She watched them from far away because being close hurt too much - _would it ever stop hurting?_ No, a thousand voices chorus. They are all her. None of them are who she wishes she could still be. _Never. This is the scar upon your sky_.

Lavellan watched until she couldn’t watch anymore.

She watched her home slowly be taken apart. Skyhold - holding nothing at all. She watched them take it apart.

She tried going to the gathering of elves, but she couldn’t.

She knew. She knew too much.

She is not one of them. Never again -

 _Never again will I submit_.

(The Mother, the Father, the Hearth Keeper, the Crafter - _never again_.

Her fingers dig scratches into the lines of her skin. She loved them once, they are part of her. Unwanted, unloved, unrecognizable - her body is not her own. She sold it without knowing to strangers long ago.

The Wolf comes to collect.

No - _Solas_ comes to collect.

He is not the Wolf. She will not give him that. She can’t give him that. The Wolf protects. The Wolf guides. The Wolf teaches. _Hahren, hahren, hahren - betrayer - lethallin -_

He is not the Wolf. He is _a_ wolf - a man, a man with power - but he is no The Wolf.

There is no wolf.

She is the Wolf. A woman without.)

Where to go? Where to go from here?

She can’t go back to Skyhold. She can’t walk among her people.

Lavellan suddenly realized that she might be alone for the rest of her life.

How strange - when just a few months ago she was surrounded in people on all sides. Qunari, dwarves, Dalish, city elves, humans from every continent - all of them with her. Her friends, her family, her allies, her coworkers. Her enemies.

And now this.

Solitude.

Such questionable bliss.

To be alone. To have no one’s voice in her ear but her own. No invisible hand forcing hers, no unknown force plotting her actions and guiding her path without her consent or knowledge. No greater good pushing down on her shoulders. No lies being placed in her mouth. Her name meaning nothing but _herself_. The freedom of choice.

To be alone, in the silence of her own thoughts.

Laughter spills out of her. A final gift.

The hand that takes is the hand that gives.

Lavellan closes her eyes and disappears.

She is free and never again will she submit. She is herself again.

-

Leliana sometimes wonders what simple luck had caused her to turn down this street - what misfortune? What fate? What hand of destiny? The Maker’s? Something worse?

Where would she be, she sometimes wonders, if not here? She wonders - would these events have still happened? Would she have joined the Inquisition? Or would she be one of those who looks down on it? Thinks it unnecessary?

Would she even care? Leliana hopes she would be the type to still care. Not a shallow and vapid thing that takes everything at the surface, swallows everything the media says is true, everything she reads without checking for fact. She hopes that would be her. She doubts sometimes.

Would she, perhaps, be dead?

Leliana wonders at what these possible selves would think of the real Leliana.

Pride? Disgust? Awe? Fear? Horror? Admiration? Respect?

All of them good things. All of them things that Leliana has dealt with already. All things she has in spaces.

Hers is a reputation to be proud of, she likes to think. Especially when used with purpose.

Whatever she could have been, Leliana hopes it was a life with purpose. She thinks she could accept other lives, other possibilities - death, weakness, faithless - as long as those lives were led with a purpose. A goal. A direction.

Without those - to be lost - that Leliana would despise most. Or at least, this Leliana. Perhaps those other Leliana’s who never were would not mind such a horrific fate. But that is, also, perhaps, because they are not her.

And she is the one that matters.


	105. Chapter 105

“I just want a nice, easy life. What’s wrong with that?”

Lavellan looks absolutely confounded when Varric says that. She turns and looks at Bull who ignores them both and continues to drive, and then she twists around to look at Vivienne who just raises an brow as if to say _your move_.

“What _isn’t_ wrong with that?” Lavellan replies, still sounding shocked. “Varric - there is no such thing as a nice and easy life. No one’s life is nice and easy and if it is it means that _they have nothing at all_. What an empty life they must have. I wouldn’t want that.”

“You can’t tell me that you actually _like_ the way things have turned out for you,” Varric says.

“I do,” Lavellan answers, “Because _this is the way it’s turned out_. I can’t just _not_ like it. If I don’t like it I change it. And it doesn’t matter about how it turned out so far because I can still make it better. I met you. And Bull. And Vivienne and Cassandra and Cullen and Sera and all these people.”

“You have a magic glowing thing on your _hand_ that’s going to kill you,” Varric replies.

“Well, we don’t know it will kill me for sure,” Lavellan frowns down at the Anchor, “But still. Nice and easy? I’ve gained so much.”

“I’ve lost so much.”

“Would you rather not have had at all?”

No one gets to hear his answer because Leliana calls in over the radio at that exact moment - “Is everyone in position?”

-

“I know you hate me and all,” Bull says to the ceiling, “But when I die would you come to my funeral?”

“One, you aren’t dying yet. You’re being entirely too dramatic about this,” Solas says, “And two, I don’t hate you. I loathe the Qunari way of thinking and the actions of your government.”

“So basically you hate everything that makes me, me,” Bull says, “Either way, would you come to my funeral?”

“Since you’re going to persist on this line of thought - may I ask _why_?”

“Because if I’m dead someone’s got to be there for the Boss,” Bull says, “Someone’s got to be steady for her. You’re steady, Solas. And you don’t really care about me so if I go down  you probably won’t feel it much.”

Solas is quiet for a moment, “Is that what you think?”

“Yeah.”

“I would feel it,” Solas says after a long moment, “I’m sorry you think I wouldn’t. But I would. I do - all things considered - think of you as a respected colleague.”

“You don’t mourn colleagues.”

“And she loves you,” Solas says even as Bull talks, his voice rueful and gentle in the ways it only is when he talks about her, “She loves you very much, the Iron Bull. I would feel it through her.”

“You love her.”

“And she loves you.” Bull laughs weakly.

“She loves you, too.”  Bull says, “So it’s like distribution? She loves the both of us so we like each other?”

“I would feel you through her,” Solas says, “And for all that she loves you, there must something to for her to lose.”

-

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. He told me you were in the past.”

“I am nothing but the past,” The woman says, standing there like a piece of paper that’s been cut so many times it is nothing. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because - weren’t you?”

The woman smiles, kind and everything the Inquisitor of Thedas was, “No. Never. Not once.”

“But it looked like - “

“It looked,” The woman shushes her, “You don’t have to be sorry. You made him happy, for a time. Thank you.”

“I - “

The woman shushes her again.

“Don’t tell him I was here.”

“He’s been looking for you.”

“They all have,” The once-Inquisitor’s eyes turn lovely around the corners. “I know. But I’m not ready yet, and neither are they.”

“For what?”

“What they think they want. I know this, now.”

“Inquisitor - “

“No,” The Inquisitor’s voice is sharp, “Not the Inquisitor. Not anymore. Not ever again. And they aren’t ready for that, either. Stay with him, while you can. While you want to. While he wants you. Help him, when you can, if you can. That’s all I ask.”

“A tall order.”

“Feel free to say no, if you like.”

“Who says no to the In - to _you_?”

Inquisitor Lavellan’s face turns sharp and sweet and lace all at once.

“You’d be surprised.”

-

“Sorry,” Rylen grimaces, “I just get very nervous when someone else is driving.”

“Understandable,” Krem says.

“Unfortunately I don’t get to drive as much,” Rylen continues.

Dalish laughs when they hit a particularly deep bump in the road and the truck bounces.

“Looking a bit green,” Krem says. “Don’t worry, you get used to it. Between you and me, Dorian drives worse.”

“I am right _here_ ,” Dorian says from the back seat.

“We’re not talking to you,” Krem says. “Just talking about you. Just talking about you.”

“Rude. And I definitely drive better. I pass my DMV test every time, first go.”

“You probably bribe someone every time.”

“How do you think I even _get_ on the list for the test in the first place?”

-

“So I’ve been checking you out,” Bull says.

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Dorian says, “Because I don’t actually need to know further.”

“Okay, yeah like that, but also not like that.” Bull laughs, “I mean, you look good, Tevinter. But I meant more like I was checking you out in that I’m trying to get a grasp on you. You’re good at acting, Tevinter.”

“You said it myself, I’m Tevinter. Our entire country is an act and a farce onto itself. We all just act as if we think otherwise.”

Bull hums, “Glad to know you know it.”

“We live it. So what else have you been observing?”

“You’re a good actor,” Bull says.

“We’ve established that already.”

“But for all of that - you really do love her,” Bull says.

“Her? Perhaps you haven’t been looking close enough. I’m not very much into _hers_.”

“You’re being dumb on purpose, now. You embarrassed? You shouldn’t be. Most people will never get what you have with her.”


	106. Chapter 106

This dream is not like the others. Solas is aware of this, intimately, immediately. But it is a good dream. A kind dream. Peaceful in its own way.

It is an impossible dream, too, most importantly. He has always been aware of the difference between dream and reality - and as of his latest waking, the differences are all too visible to ignore.

(Cars and engines, belching their pollutants into the air in which the People once _flew_. Glittering buildings that pierce the sky - vulgar and not at all close to the spires of gold and glass and magic that threaded through blue like intricate needlework. Roads - ugly and hot and cracked - where there was just simple green because the roads were elsewhere, in another place, far away from the unsoiled ground.)

But all dreams are impossible, in their own way - reality can never imitate such intimacy.

In this particular dream, they sit above the clouds in one of these old spires of gold and glass and magic and watch the sun rise. They - being Solas and Lavellan.

He sits and he is not Solas, nor is he exactly the man he was then. Some unknown person in between, some twilight figure.

Lavellan sits, her head rested on his shoulder, impossibly young. Younger, even, than when they first met. And she was so powerfully young then. Such a child.

The Inquisition was quick to strangle that out of her. Or perhaps she smothered it herself - self preservation.

Her face is marked. He knows this because she is always marked. He cannot erase that from her. He has dreamed that at as well - many times, many failures, many nights past. It is part of her.

She is marked with the vallaslin, but she is not marked for him. There is no Anchor. Why should there be in this dream, where he did not fail? Did not destroy? Did not run like a coward?

His arm is around her, and she is young, and he is not exactly himself - in this dream he is her hahren, truly, perhaps he is even her father.

(Ah, such selfishness.)

There is birdsong. The beginnings of it. The quiet sounds of life moving around them. A life lost. A life forgotten. A life never lived.

Solas enjoys this dream. It is the only solace he can take.

“I know it is, it’s more than you deserve, you know that, right? You don’t deserve this. Me. The world. Like this.”

He looks down and Lavellan’s young face is tired and dying and blood splattered. He pulls back, taking her by the shoulders as he searches her for injury. There is none.

“Are you looking for the Anchor, _hahren_?” She holds up her hands, each hand perfect and smooth - blood covered. “Don’t worry, it isn’t mine. Is it yours, I wonder?”

She purrs a laugh.

He looks into her eyes.

“What are you?”

“You know what I am,” She croons, standing up and walking around him. He pulls into a defensive crouch, watching her stalk. “The shadow that tints your thoughts, the swallow of regret that pushes in your chest and turns every taste bitter. The encroaching darkness that ends every day of hope. The whisper of a touch on the back of your neck. The eyes that follow. You know exactly what I am.”

“You aren’t her.”

“Aren’t I?” She tilts her head. “How would you know? You didn’t stay. I am this - “

She is young and beautiful, summer glowing from every perfect pore.

“But I am also this, which you made me. Your machinations and neglect and your endless lessons and tests.”

Swift autumn, a tense and brittle edge to her face, the touch of fear and cruelty as her skin tints green. The Anchor flickers to life on her hand - the hand she brings to touch her own face, fear and pain and horror.

“And I am this, too. What was left after your betrayal, your lies, your silence, your absence. Your cowardice.”

Winter strikes on her face, the Anchor spreads up through her limbs and she is a thin, unsteady thing with confused eyes and the figure of one who is hunted at every corner. Solas raises his hands for her.

This is a dream. In this dream he can take her into his arms and fix this. His da’len. His girl.

“Ah,” the dream’s voice curls, “But I too, am this. Finally.”

Spring, unexpected and inevitable, blooms violently. She groans a scream through her teeth as the Anchor burns her. Devours her. He watches as the arm disappears into the Anchor, her eyes on his, teeth bared.

“Knowledge is power, hahren, you always told me this,” the dream hisses as the Anchor devours her flesh - turning it green then black as it’s sucked in, “Is that why you were always sure to give me none?”

“I taught you everything I could.”

The dream spits at his feet.

“Liar. Betrayer. Everything but what I needed to know.”

“What are you?” He demands in the true language. Her laugh curls against his scalp.

He is no longer that person between Solas and Fen’Harel. He is _Solas_. Old and tired, pushed to continue, until the end of all things.

“Your end, _Creator_ ,” The dream says. “You know what I am.”

“Demon.”

“Are demons not spirits seen incorrectly? Perverted from their cause? Did you not turn me from my purpose? Manipulate me into that image which you wanted?”

“This is a dream.”

“So? Can’t your dreams kill you, too?”

Solas knows how to control his own dreams.

“Can you? How do you fight what is inside of you?” The dream tilts her head. “How do you fight what you are, wolf? Biting the hand that feeds you? Did you truly ever love her - me? Are you frightened, angry, Creator Wolf? _Father_? Am I not what you wanted me to be - sharp and mean and cruel? Powerful? Dominant? Taking what I want? Am I not what I should have always been?”

She gestures to the world around them - perfect in every way. Glorious and impossible and long lost.

“Am I not made in your own image?”

Yes.

“Am I not beautiful as I am?”

Yes.

“Are you not _proud of what you have made me into_?”

_Yes._

For a moment - her face is soft.

“Then come home to me.”

“I cannot,” His voice comes out choked and quiet and weak. “I cannot.”

Her face is Mythal’s, his own, hers, too many people he’s lost at once to understand.

“Then die, old wolf,” She says, “Lick your wounds in your hidden patch of land. And leave the world to its inheritors. Your time is over. Die with it.”

This is a dream.

He wakes up.


	107. Chapter 107

Cullen curls up as tightly as he can - knees so tight against his chest he can barely breathe, which is good because with every breath he swears he can taste-smell-swallow the lyrium in Cassandra’s pocket.

Every time he breathes he can hear - as if the sound of thunder - the wrinkling of the papers he dropped and pushed over when he collapsed onto the floor, and the broken pieces of glass from some sort of paperweight that had fallen with the papers.

Cassandra has been telling him to fight this like he always had for the past half hour but he thinks he’s wearing her down. He thinks that today’s the day he gets her to give him the vial - or take his resignation.

“Cullen,” it is the weakest and most desperate he has ever heard her and the better parts of him that don’t want to ever hear her this way are too faded to matter, “You can fight this. I know you can. You are a strong and good man. You can rise above it. Just take my hand.”

“Take my resignation,” He snarls through his teeth, a bitter lance of _desire_ rushing through his blood as pain wedges itself deep into his skull.

Sound fades out for a while as he tries to focus on the pain, getting used to it. It’s not a good idea.

His body can always learn to hurt him worse.

A new sound enters, Lavellan.

“Whatever happens next,” Lavellan’s voice is oddly low - liquid, but not in the way of streams and fountains, but like a still ocean that moves without moving, a sound so low and constant and echoing that you cannot place it aside from your own bones - “Do not interfere.”

Cullen curls tight as he hears the rasp of her shoes on the floor, over papers.

He tastes her shadow over him - the lingering touch of lyrium dusting the smell of her magic.

“Cullen,” She says. “Look at me.”

Cullen closes his eyes, rebellion standing in him stronger than anything else he has to offer because she’s the main reason why Cassandra probably hasn’t given in yet.

“Cullen,” Her voice rushes in close, “I said _look at me_.”

Cullen opens his eyes, it is a mistake. Pain shocks through him as the Anchor sears itself into his eyes - he has never seen it like this - as Lavellan’s hand swoops into his face, and past - grabbing his hair and yanking him up.

He has never seen her like this. Cullen tastes her in his gasp of surprise and Cassandra makes a sound of alarm further away.

Lavellan’s face is nothing familiar. There is no girl he protects, no woman he follows, no Commander or Leader or friend.

Lavellan’s face is every Dalish horror story told by mothers to their children, she is every demon howling in the night, every abomination, every wrecked Templar, every single knife glitter.

Her nails dig into his scalp.

“I have tried this the nice way,” Lavellan says, “I have tried it the easy way.”

Cullen’s breath scoffs at those words. Lavellan shakes him, like a dog.

“You think that I’m making a joke? You think that I’m making light of this situation? Cullen, I _love you_ ,” She spits the word into his face like a curse, “We all _love you_. But since _you_ don’t love you, it doesn’t fucking matter. All of this - for you. You squander it. You waste it. Chained to lyrium like a fucking _dog_.”

Pain digs itself, burrowing, ever deeper between his eyes. He can feel them water.

“You won’t fight it, fight me. You think you deserve it,” Lavellan continues, “You think you deserve this suffering. I don’t. No one here does. Doesn’t matter. _You do_. And nothing I say will change that. You think you don’t deserve to be better. You _like your suffering_. That it makes up for what you’ve done. It doesn’t.”

Lavellan’s eyes are dark things and he can feel the flicker of magic - the Anchor - on the back of his head. Her eyes search his face.

“I wanted to make this easy for you, Cullen. I wanted you to want this, do this for you. Not for anyone else. It doesn’t mean anything otherwise.”

Cullen swallows - “I need it to lead.”

“I need you to _Command_ ,” She snaps. “Fine, you want the lyrium so bad? Take it. Take as much of it as you want.”

“ _Inquisitor_ \- “ He hears quick movement, Cassandra - Lavellan throws out her other hand.

Something in Cullen collapses, like a rushing sigh - a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“I need you to _command_ , Cullen,” Lavellan continues. “Since you think you can’t do that without lyrium, fine. Take it. Do your fucking job and take the fucking lyrium. Kill yourself. Gorge yourself. Be weak. Punish yourself as much as you like. I can’t take your resignation. We’ve gotten too far with you, it would raise too many eyebrows. Jeopardize too many of our alliances. The Inquisition needs you. I’ll even give you the first dose myself. So everyone knows I’m okay with it.”

Cullen breathes in, he can taste the lyrium, and he is _light, light, lighter than he has been in years_.

He can _serve_ as he was _meant to_.

“Inquisitor, I don’t agree with this, Cullen can still - “ Cassandra says, fury building like fire in every word.

“One condition,” Lavellan’s voice is still that vast ocean, but darker, a threat on the horizon. Cullen’s feels himself freezing with anticipation. Lavellan’s eyes dig into his own. “Every time you take a dose of lyrium, I’m going to give the same dose to a child.”

His own horror erupts from his mouth at the same time Cassandra’s fury bursts from hers, Lavellan turns onto Cassandra and the sharp unfamiliarity of it stops her dead in her tracks.

Any other time and Cullen would be impressed if he weren’t so horrified.

“You can’t,” Cassandra’s voice is brittle with rage.

“A lot of people say I can’t do things,” Lavellan says, “I do them anyway. You think I can’t? I will walk out of this room right now and take any child I want. Their parents would sell their entire families to me if I asked for it.”

Bitterness curls underneath the waves, and bursts forth with a violence of foam -

“ _I am the Herald of Andraste_ , I could ask them to slit their wrists and they’d do it for me,” Lavellan’s voice crackles, “I am the one thing standing between them and the Breach, Tevinter, and destruction. They would give their children to me in _droves_. And the would _beg for the honor_.”

Cassandra’s face is pale with horror. Realization.

“This is what you have made me,” Lavellan says, turning back to Cullen, “This is what you drive me to. You can’t do it for yourself? You can’t do it for me? For Cassandra? For the people who love you? Fine. We aren’t enough? _You_ aren’t enough? Fine.”

“That’s unfair,” Cullen rasps.

“So?” Lavellan raises an eyebrow, “I won’t do it if you don’t. You think I care about fair? You use my name all the time without my consent. You use _me_ all the time without consent. It isn’t fair. You’re right. I don’t care anymore. I need you Cullen. And I’m going to do _whatever it takes_ to keep you.”

Lavellan lets go of him so fast that Cullen almost cracks his chin on the floor. She stands.

There’s a glow of blue on the floor. A single vial of lyrium.

Cullen’s bones are screaming for it.

“Get up, Commander.” Lavellan says, whisper deadly, “Take your lyrium and get up, there’s work to be done.”

Cullen stares up at her, aching and wanting and disgusted and ashamed.

Lavellan continues to look down at him, unfamiliar and cruel with the pragmatisim and calmness with which she’s delivered her ultimatum.

Cullen feels his joints creaking and protesting, his bones shaking and threatening to crack down the middle as he pushes himself onto his hands and knees. His legs are unsteady as he stands and he falls on his ass a few times.

Every time he looks up and Lavellan just looks back down at him, looming and distant.

Eventually Cullen manages to stand, swaying and shaking the entire time.

“You aren’t going to take the lyrium?” She says.

“No,” Cullen rasps.

“Why not?” Lavellan asks.

“I don’t need it,” Cullen replies. Not with that price.

(Not with what she asks. Not with what he’s made her do. Not with what he’s forced her to become. Not like this.)

Lavellan’s eyes are dark, and they flash - for a moment - back to familiar sorrow and heartbreak, before she turns around and walks out of the room, as if she never was.

Cassandra is there as his knees collapse, both of them looking at the door that closed as silently as her eyes behind her.

“Maker,” Cassandra whispers.

No, Cassandra thinks. Whatever else is the opposite, more like.


	108. Chapter 108

“You really will eat anything, won’t you?” Dorian muses, flicking his book open - book club books are always terrible, but it’s something to talk about, at least. Aside from himself and his research, and how wrong everyone else’s is, of course.

Lavellan shrugs and shovels another fork full of burnt - questionably so, he isn’t sure if it was on purpose or not? Does it make it taste better or worse? Or maybe you just don’t taste anything after eating it long enough? - eggs into her mouth.

“I almost died,” Lavellan says and Dorian doesn’t realize it means anything more than usual for about five minutes. Then he realizes that Lavellan’s shoveling of food into her mouth has changed into a weirdly rhythmic sort of thing, mechanical, and that her face is oddly serious.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It is another few minutes of silence, where Lavellan’s fork moves from plate to almost her mouth before stopping and lowering. False starts. Dorian pretends to keep reading.

“I mean that I almost died before this. Before coming here, before all of this,” Lavellan says. “Starved. You don’t get picky afterwards. Taste, smell, mold - doesn’t matter when you’re hungry. If it keeps you alive - “

Lavellan stops.

“If it keeps you alive?” He prompts her gently.

“That wasn’t the only way,” Lavellan says, “Starvation, dehydration, malnutrition, heat, cold, bugs, damp, shems, animals, storms.”

Lavellan scrapes the tines of her fork against her plate and she snorts, “Now it’s all those things and lyrium and demons and my own hand and more shems.”

Dorian leans his shoulder against hers. A gentle nudge. Lavellan takes in a slow breath.

“When you think about it, Dorian,” She says, “Nothing’s changed. It’s just different kinds of ways to die.”

She starts eating again.

Dorian rests his hand on her thigh underneath the table and goes back to reading.

She’ll talk when she wants.

Lavellan presses her leg flush against his, ankle to hip.

-

“It hurt you, but you did it. _Why_?” Cole says, tilting his head to try and look into her face, “It’s still hurting you. A knife pointed outward, swinging low - and you graze with poison, but the knife turns inwards. Plunging and hitting home with everything dangerous. Why did you do that?”

“Because it’s what needed to be done,” Lavellan slowly takes Cole’s hand and squeezes hard.

She can squeeze hard with him. Cole doesn’t mind.

For her, for her, whatever she needs.

“You hurt him on purpose,” Cole says, “And it hurt you just as much - more.”

Lavellan burrows her head into her knees.

Cole pushes a trash basket towards her. He changed the lining already.

“A leader does what needs to be done,” Bull says, over them, solid and warm and steady - _I want that, I want him, I want this - “_ And she leads.”

“Cullen is a good man, he’s such a good man,” Lavellan’s shoulders threaten to start shaking and Bull carefully gets his hands underneath her arms and picks her up. Cole watches as she uncurls long enough to fit her body around his, and she’s clamped tight shut again.

“It’s hurting her,” Cole says, holding his hand out.

The Iron Bull raises an eyebrow.

“Not to forget,” Cole says, “To comfort.”

He nods. Cole puts his hands on Lavellan’s back.

“Cullen’s a good guy,” The Iron Bull agrees as they walk back into her bedroom, stepping over piles of books and stuffed animals and boxes of opened and unopened presents, “And since he’s such a good guy, you knew it’d work. He doesn’t care much about himself.”

“Or us,” Lavellan says.

The Iron Bull hums, “That’s a conversation for another time. Point is, he cares about duty, what’s right, and other people. You hit him hard, kadan. I’m surprised.”

Lavellan sniffles, a wet sound, and peels her face away from his neck to look at him.

“How could you ever be disgusted by the sun? The stars shine - dangerous and frightening, vast and gentle, elegant things, but never disgusting,” Cole says, curling his fingers into the back of her shirt, fingertips tracing over the lines underneath.

Lavellan watches the Iron Bull’s face for anything - a trick - before she accepts the truth of her stars and puts her head back onto his skin, letting him take all of her weight.

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” Bull says, “It’s something more Leliana than you. But that wasn’t her.”

“No,” Lavellan digs her face further into his skin.

(He would not have hesitated. She didn’t, either. But he would not feel bad about it after wards. He’s so sure of everything. How do you obtain that kind of certainty for yourself?)

“You meant it, because if you didn’t mean it, it wouldn’t hurt. But it hurts you, too. Why? I don’t understand.”

The Iron Bull’s hand rests over his head, dragging the brim of his hat low over his eyes.

“She had to mean it, and she had to make it hurt,” He says, “Otherwise there wouldn’t have been a point.”

“But now they are all hurting. And afraid.”

“Good,” The Iron Bull says, “They should be.”

“She doesn’t want them to be afraid.”

The Iron Bull runs his hand up and down Lavellan’s back.

It doesn’t matter. But it has to, it must. What’s the point of it all if it doesn’t?

“You did it because you love him.”

“She did it because she needs him,” The Iron Bull says, “She just also happens to love him.”

“She wouldn’t do that to you,” Cole murmurs.

“She wouldn’t need to,” The Iron Bull’s hand is dry and hot on the back of Cole’s neck. Warm sand trickling over skin. “I don’t break that way.”

A thousand other ways, already broken, healed over with better bone. Still cracked, fault lines ready to fall apart again. Over and over, the same thing. A heart too big, too heavy. Iron flowing in and out. Vital thing.

“Other ways, other times, other kadans,” Cole whispers.

“Yeah,” The Iron Bull says.

But not this one.

Not yet.


	109. Chapter 109

Heartbreak.

How many times can it happen to a single person in a life time? How many different ways can the heart be broken? Too many, an infinite and terrifying amount.

How many times can heartbreak be survived? How many times can the heart heal?

“You don’t truly want an answer to that question.”

“How many times did your heart break?”

“More than can be counted. More than I can stand to remember.”

“And what happened?”

“I stand before you, do I not, shem?”

Another crack.

“I am not a shem,” Lavellan whispers.

Abelas raises an eyebrow, “Then what are you? Elf? The same as I? Where? How? What blood and love of country?”

She lowers her eyes.

How many times can a heart be broken apart, only to be put back together - when will it stop hurting?

When do you grow used to that sort of pain?

“You do not,” Abelas says. Pity for the pitiful.

Lavellan brings her arm close to herself.

“Am I so obvious?”

“We are not the same, you and I,” Abelas says, “In blood. But I do recognize it in you. A kinship of sorts. United in loss.”

“In heartbreak,” Lavellan breathes.

“You will live,” Abelas determines when she meets his eyes, “Such is the curse of the one left behind. To always live on. Heartbreak only kills the lucky few.”

“And the rest of us, left behind to ruin,” Lavellan says.

Abelas abruptly reaches out and holds his hand over her face, fingertips skimming over her forehead, nose, cheek bones, lips.

“Blessing upon you, child,” He says, voice slipping into the deep and echoing sounds of the old tongue. A calling to something inside of her she has never had. “The path of ruin is hard, and long, and unrewarding. A curse upon they who placed you on it, gifts to those who try to take you from it. You have my sympathy.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan says, the word _hahren_ trapped in her throat.

Will she ever look on another and take them as hers?

“It ruins you,” Abelas says as she takes the hand he blessed her with - does she truly even believe anymore? - and completes the ritual, kissing the meat of his palm and pressing her forehead to the center. “But it is all that is worth anything, when it comes down to it.”

“It drives a man to war,” Lavellan says.

“To make peace,” Abelas reminds her, gently. “And to abandon it. To change the nature of a thing and to convolute its purpose.”

“What did it make you do?”

“It made me suffer,” Abelas answers immediately, “It made me bleed. It made me surrender. What did it make _you_ do?”

“It made me hurt others,” Lavellan says, voice rough and fading, “It made me act unkind.”

She looks away again.

“It made me proud.”

Abelas’ knuckles brush against her chin, drawing her gaze back to his. “There is no shame in any of those things.”

“And yet I feel it,” Lavellan replies, “As solidly as I feel the loss.”

“Lathbora viran,” Abelas says, “You know not what you have lost for it is gone. You long for what is lost, for what was once possible and no longer. We are kindred in this, shem, if nothing else.”

-

“If only I’d just gone when she called for me,” Dorian says.

“But she _didn’t_ call for you, did she - what, with you all the way in Tevinter doing things all knife dark and shady as shit,” Sera says and Dorian rounds on her -

“She didn’t call for _anyone_ ,” Varric gets between them before it can get ugly. Uglier. “And that’s kind of the point.”

“She didn’t want to spread the hurt,” Cole rocks back and forth in a corner, eyes fixed ahead, crinkling his cap in his hands and shivering, “But now it’s spilling over and she can’t hold it back and she’s drowning and is this what coming home feels like?”

“Shut him up before I do,” Sera says to Varric, “He _listens_ to you.”

“I should be in there,” Dorian says.

“What, so you can pass out on top of her?” Bull snorts, “What good will you do?”

“Better than you sitting there and scaring everyone in a ten mile radius,” Dorian snaps. “Go - go clean that off, would you?”

“I thought you’d be used to the blood by now, Tevinter,” Bull sneers through his teeth.

“It’s all so wrong, now,” Cole curls up so tight that his feet aren’t even on the floor, “All the knives spinning inwards. A wall of knives collapsing without anything inside to protect. It wasn’t meant to be this way.”

“Then what the fuck was it supposed to be, then?” Sera glares at Cole’s direction before rounding on Varric, “Don’t you even try to tell me to go easy on him. Of all the people - shouldn’t that thing have known first? It goes around poking its nose into everyone’s business outing every single secret all the time and it couldn’t even pick up on this? Fucking useless _shit_.”

They all dissolve into frustrated barbs and snarls, each caught and tangled into each other’s cross hairs.

Leliana watches.

Is this the end of it, then? For all of them?

The bonds forged, the blood shed, the hands held, the long nights in the dark waiting for the dawn, the endless march, the words whispered in comfort, the truths laid bare between them - all of that, gone? Torn to shreds as if nothing?

Is this where it all falls apart?

Leliana turns to Cassandra, the same hands of the same body already gone.

Cassandra looks away.

She never looks away first.

Leliana reaches for her, and their hands clasp together silently in the shadows of all the blood and chaos.

The Inquisition may not survive this night.

Lavellan might not make it past this hour.

This is where it all ends.

A meeting of peace, an assassination attempt, and the death of a woman touched by the Maker.

It ends where it began, then.

Their hands squeeze - bodiless.


	110. Chapter 110

“The inevitability of inadequacy,” Solas opens his eyes and turns his head. “That is what you fear, isn’t it? Old wolf?”

So it is to be one of _those_ dreams then.

Even here, in this place, he can find no peace.

Solas wills this apparition away - and she disappears with a soft wisp of color. For the moment.

“Even here, you lose your touch,” She says, reappearing behind him. He turns, dread and resignation. He is hunted with every step. He isn’t sure exactly how he feels about it. “What are you, old wolf, that even in this - what you call your own domain, your home, your playground - you are losing control? Wasn’t this what defined you? The dreamer? The Fade expert? What are you, now?”

“I am real, and you are still a dream,” Solas replies.

“Am I?” The dream raises an eyebrow.

She is every inch him. From the way she stands, the way her hands are folded behind her back. Even the way she looks at him - distant, untouchable, untouched, proud and patronizing. The way she speaks. The way she moves.

She is him.

“Was I not made in your image?” The dream says, walking around him - inspecting him, appraising him of worth.

So this is to be on the other side. So this is how it is.

“Yes,” The dream says.

He has never known the reality of this dream - not this way. Not in her dress uniform. Not speaking, acting, holding herself like this.

Towards the end of the fight with Corypheus, Lavellan was thrown into a never ending array of uniforms. A thousand meetings from people who wanted so secure favors and promises from her while she was still alive. While she was still worth her word.

Blue and black for Orlais, a uniform in red and cream for Ferelden, not to forget her somber black and gold when she was standing strong as Inquisitor, green and tan for meeting with military leaders - at least a dozen or more uniforms for all the organizations she must play to.

And again, towards the end - before her final end, as things built up towards the trial. Always the black of Lavellan, Inquisitor and First Thaw.

“Back to what we were speaking of before you began to taste the nostalgia,” The dream says, “The inevitability of inadequacy. You’re out of tricks, old wolf. Toothless. And yet, you continue to try and make yourself into something that we all know you are not.”

“You don’t know this,” Solas says.

“Do I not?” The dream tilts its head, looking him up and down, “Look at you, old wolf. Old. Weakened. You couldn’t even access your own focus. You’re crumbling where you stand, grasping for straws. The old guard, weaker than ever. Just let it all alone, old wolf. Leave it be. Leave it to the new guard, leave it to _me_. Aren’t you confident you molded me well enough?”

“I did not mold you,” Solas replies.

“This is your dream. And Lavellan was your apprentice.” The dream’s smile is pitying, patronizing, “Your would be daughter.” The dream pauses for a moment and laughs, “Though you never said that. Coward.”

Solas does not flinch.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of change,” The dream continues, “Isn’t that the nature of things? Evolution? Winter to spring? The cycle of the tides? The strong become old and are replaced with the new. Did you think you would be in control forever? Such arrogance.”

The dream clicks its tongue.

“You know the story as well as I do,” The dream says, “The son overwhelms the father - learning everything the father has and more. Perfecting upon the old. The wolf devours the sun.”

Solas narrows his eyes.

“And you know, of course,” The dream buffs its nails on its jacket, “How that story ends.”

“A better world, he was not the sun,” Solas says.

The dream looks disappointed.

“No, the wolf is bitten by the snake,” The dream snorts, “Obviously. You already know this story, why are you trying to change it?”

Solas allows himself a single moment of weakness and closes his eyes. “There is no snake.”

“What, you think you killed the snake? Broke its neck?”

“She has no power,” Solas says. She is dead. The Inquisition is gone. _She_ is gone.

The dream hums, “Are you sure?”

Solas glares at the apparition.

It waves both hands, the Anchor flashing a laughing green.

“You think you took the power back? Then why is it still here? Why does it refuse to obey you? Tell me, old wolf. I think you already know.”

Solas raises a hand and focuses on trying to erase the apparition again.

“Old tricks,” The apparition laughs, “You already know you failed. It’s over, old wolf. Your time is done. _You_ are done.”

No, Solas thinks, grasping at the edges of the dream and warping the material of it. Not quite yet.

The dream smiles at him even as he pushes it away.

“I’ll be back,” The dream says.

“I trust that you will be,” Solas replies. “You always do return.”

The dream laughs, “Like a bad penny.”

-

“What’s in the bag and why are you hiding it here?” Cullen asks.

“Because Cassandra wouldn’t think to look here,” Varric replies, “And it’s either this or the Chantry and one is slightly less blasphemous than the other.”

“Why are you more afraid of Cassandra than me? I’m the _Commander of the army_ ,” Cullen says as Varric moves aside some of Cullen’s books to shove the duffel bag into a shelf. “Also, yes, Varric, do come in. Make yourself at home. You want a soda? Tea? Coffee?”

“I’m good, Curly, good of you to offer. Good to know that the manners are still intact,” Varric says. “Also, is there anyone who’s more afraid of you than of the Seeker? No one. You’re a kitten compared to her, Rutherford, and everyone knows it.”

“Is that how you talk to someone you’re asking favors from? Also, _no_ , Varric, you can’t leave that - whatever it is - here.”

“It isn’t your castle.”

“Did the Inquisitor explicitly say you could hide your - whatever it is - wherever you want?”

“No, but she’d probably say yes.”

“ _No, Varric_.”

“Oh, come on, Rutherford. It’s nothing bad. I’ll be moving it out of here within a few days, tops. I can’t have it sitting in one place too long. Too much of a chance of someone finding it. Hey, could I use your loft?”

“Absolutely not,” Cullen says, “Besides, she searches the loft every two days.”

Varric raises an eyebrow. Cullen feels shame and embarrassment hit him at once.

“Lyrium checks,” Cullen admits, “I would feel more insulted if I weren’t touched by how dedicated she is to helping me.”

It’s useless, though.

If Cullen were hiding any lyrium, he’d have taken it already, most likely.

Varric’s expression softens - saddens - for a moment, then returns to complete asshole.

“Well, thanks for the heads up. I’ll have to tell Lavellan to take her stuff then.”

“What stuff?”


	111. Chapter 111

"Hi, there, Lavellan - that’s me, if you didn't know. I don’t know how you wouldn't know because it seems _everyone_ knows these days, anyway _hi_ \- here and I have a question for you, um. Robert? Bob? Dickie? Richard? You look like a Charles, to me, personally. I’m going to call you Charles. Anyway, hi, Charles. I’m Lavellan, and look - see, I have a problem. Some people would say many problems with a good - _maybe on a good day_ \- seventy percent of them my own doing. But I can swear to you here and now that this one definitely is _not_ of my doing and I could use some assistance in fixing it, even though I definitely did not break it. What do you say, Charles?”

“I remain confused,” Sera says turning to Blackwall, “What’s she trying to do, again?”

Blackwall shrugs, flipping a page in his newspaper. Sera doesn’t know _where_ Blackwall got an actual to god _newspaper_ \- and not one of the pathetic three or four page ones that’s mostly ads, but a full blown multi-sectioned newspaper with real articles and shit - in the middle of fuck all ghost and bad horror movie countryside. She attributes this to Blackwall’s morose noire bullshit that he’s got going for him.

Sera goes toward the car, climbing onto the top of the SUV and tries to see if she can spot Cassandra. The woman went off about an hour ago to see if she could find some help.

Admittedly, it isn’t a good idea to go off alone when you’re in a situation like this. It’s like, rule _one_ in any horror movie that’s ever been thought off, ever.

But this is also Cassandra Pentaghast, and Sera guesses that Cassandra-a-thousand-names-Pentaghast has a better chance at surviving the horror show that is their life than anyone else here.

Also, a minority character always has to die - usually because they’re the one with common sense - to get the plot rolling.

And Lavellan is just the kind of stupid lucky to be a major character in a shitty horror movie and _survive_ through the entire damn thing.

“I have a plan,” Lavellan announces. Sera looks down at her, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. Lavellan stands up, holding the crow she was talking to. The one that looks like a Charles to Lavellan but just looks like another mean bird to Sera.

Blackwall grunts, “And it involves the bird?”

“What, no? Charles is free to go whenever he wants,” Lavellan looks down at the bird for a moment before tossing him into the air. Charles flies away with a loud squawking. Lavellan shrugs and dusts her hands off on her palms. “Charles has already given me what I needed to know.”

“That’s ominous,” Sera says. “I hate it when you do ominous.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lavellan says, clapping her hands together, “We’re going to find a cornfield.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sera says, “You _are_ the star of the horror movie. Your’e the actual fucking _villain_ of the horror movie. I’m too smart to be a protagonist to this shit.”

-

“Jail can’t stop me,” Lavellan says, stops - and for the first time in possibly her entire life, realizes the gravity of the situation and exactly how bad that sounds.

Everyone around them seems to breathe a collective and silent sigh of relief when Lavellan stops, blinks, shoots a look at Dorian who shakes his head _no_ , and Lavellan’s mouth twists into a regretful grimace.

And then she ruins it by continuing to talk.

“Well. I mean. It could stop me for a little bit, but let’s be honest, I’ve done a lot of things from behind cell doors. Also I don’t think jail could hold me for very long.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sera groans, “How are you so bad at this?”

Dorian puts his head in his hands.

“Solas, why are you mouthing _hot milky_ at me?” Lavellan asks. “Anyway. listen. This isn’t even a real court. You realize that, right? This isn’t actual legal process. Josephine has been having me read a lot of stuff about civil rights and how they fail their citizens because the system of punishment and enforcement of law is _heavily -_ and I mean _heavily_ \- skewed towards a certain minority socio-economic, imposed majority-race group that just happens to fill most of the room I’m standing in right now. What I’m trying to say is that this is a fake court and you can’t arrest me and put me on trial because you don’t like that I have a vagina that sheds and pointy ears. I’m going to go now. Bye.”

With that, Lavellan starts walking out of the room.

Dorian and Solas exchange looks and within moments mentally fight out who walks out after her.

Solas wins and follows.

Dorian’s face twitches.

“Well,” He turns to the rest of the room, “Perhaps we should call the proper authorities on this one, since talking it out didn’t seem to go over well?”

-

“Hey, can I be forward with you?” Bull asks as Lavellan finishes zip-tying a group of unconscious Venatori agents by their hands and ankles into positions meant for the extremely flexible.

“I don’t see why you’re asking permission now,” Lavellan says, dusting her hands off, “But sure. You know I don’t mind.”

“I love you,” Bull says.

Lavellan beams, “I love you too. Pass me the screw driver.”

“You two are sick,” Varric says, walking past them to try and pry some bolts out of the wall.

“Says the man who’s devoted to his _antiquated crossbow_ ,” Bull says.

“Don’t listen to him, Bianca, I’ll never trade you in for a newer model.”

“What brings on this seemingly spontaneous declaration of love?” Lavellan asks as she works on dismantling their - well. Something. Bull didn’t get a good look at it aside to guess that it’s some sort of timed detonation device. Sera and Lavellan have been doing a lot of work on practicing her diffusing skills.

Bull shrugs, kicking a groaning Venatori guard int he head to shut him up, “I like seeing competent people at work.”

“Just competent?” Lavellan pouts.

“Yeah, way to lay it on there, Tiny,” Varric snorts.

“Amazing? Talented? Extraordinary? Fantastic?”

“Are you getting all this down for your novel, Varric?”

“He gazed into her glittering orbs and began to rattle off his list of devoted and passionate thoughts of her, does that sound about right? I’m planning for this book to tank, by the way. Let me know if you’d rather me write this as a web comic.”


	112. Chapter 112

“Have you seen the Iron Bull?” Lavellan asks, bouncing into the chair in front of Sera.

“The what?” Sera looks around the pub. She is entirely certain that if the owners of this fine and smelly - also sticky, can’t forget that part - establishment decided to install a mechanical bull she’d have noticed.

“Not what, _”_  Lavellan replies, raising her hand and waving it in the air, “About a billion feet tall. Has horns. Only one eye. Eight fingers? Seven fingers? Seven and a half fingers? Eyepatch. Not sure if there’s an eye underneath it or not. I didn’t ask. He’s Qunari and I’m going to be his friend.”

“Sure you are, wait his name is really the Iron Bull?”

“Maybe? I don’t know, Sera. How do you ask someone if their name is real or not?” Lavellan looks briefly puzzled before she shakes her head, “You and I are going to be his friends.”

“Oh, I’m involved in this now, am I?” Sera raises an eyebrow, “You and I are barely on speaking terms. I don’t even know if I like you yet.”

Lavellan’s eyes suddenly turn into like - kitten eyes. Kitten eyes that have been photoshopped to be big and shiny and all that stuff that just gets you right in the soft spaces. Ugh.

“But Sera,” Lavellan bounces a little, shaking the table between them with her motion, “You’re the only one who knows a lot about Qunari.”

“Okay,  _no_ ,” Sera raises her eyebrows, “Everything I know about Qunari is from porn.”

Lavellan blinks and tilts her head, “Porn?”

“You know,” Sera trails off and when Lavellan just continues to stare at her, awkwardly clears her throat, “ _Pornography_?”

Lavellan frowns.

“Sexy stuff,” Sera waves her hand, voice low, “Skinship, smut, lemons, limes, PWP?”

Sera stares at Lavellan with slow growing horror because none of these words appear to be ringing any bells in what Sera is pretty sure is a really empty head.

“Andraste’s left tit,” Sera says, “Come on -  _porn_?”

The corner of the other woman’s lip very briefly and minutely twitches upwards. Sera immediately kicks her underneath the table. Lavellan bursts out laughing, neatly dodging Sera’s multiple attempts at kicking her.

“You fucking - Andraste I’m going to -  _you little shit!_ ”

“I couldn’t help it,” Lavellan says as she laughs, tears welling up in her eyes, “No one here knows anything about the Dalish and someone kept trying to explain beer cans to me and it was so surreal - “

“You were just going to go on letting me think you didn’t know what porn was? Were you going to make me show some to you?”

“Gross,  _no_ ,” Lavellan wrinkles her nose. “And also -  _of course the Dalish have porn,_  Sera. I mean - most of it is like, stolen or smuggled out from cities and stuff, and usually super dated, but we know what it is. Some of us make it ourselves.”

Sera boggles, “I cannot tell if you’re shitting me right now.”

“My second cousin three times removed knew a guy who drew out pornography and distributed it because the stuff we normally can get our hands on is so bad and boring,” Lavellan replies, “Honestly? I don’t have a taste for it myself but my clan mates would ask me for help hiding it because I had the best hiding spots and they’d trade me sewing supplies for rent in my hiding places. Come on, Sera. Help me make friends with the Iron Bull!”

-

“Good morning Princess,” Krem shakes Lavellan awake, precarious balanced to avoid falling on her, onto her various piles of  _things_ , or what looks like a live circuit she must have been  _playing_  with before she fell asleep.

Lavellan’s hair is all that he can see of her, spread out on the pillow where her head should be. From what he can tell, she’s curled up into a little ball underneath the blankets.

“Rise and shine,” Krem says, shaking her some more. Lavellan groans. “I have your breakfast, as usual. Come on. Let’s get this in you before Solas comes up with your medicine. How’s the fever?”

“It’s doing good,” Lavellan croaks, slowly shuffling up the bed and peering at him with red-rimmed eyes, “I’m not.”

“Probably shouldn’t have stayed up late,” Krem says eying the circuit. Lavellan picks it up and tosses it into a clear plastic box halfway across the room. Krem could only  _wish_  he had that kind of accuracy when he’s sick.

He sits down on the bed and puts his hand against her head, frowning - still hot.

“I’ve got oatmeal for you and a banana,” Krem says, “The chefs are worried about you, they even gave me some brown sugar.”

“I thought Solas said nothing sweet?”

“Has anyone ever told you about how much the chefs of Skyhold loathe your mentor? Because they do. A lot. Because he’s really picky for someone who was  _homeless_ ,” Krem says, “What is he? A count?”

“An accountant, probably,” Lavellan rasps. Krem stops her from taking the tea, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a very small jar of honey. Lavellan’s eyes widen with excitement and Krem grins at her.

“Our secret,” Krem tells her.

Lavellan nods eagerly.

Krem carefully pours the honey into her tea, using a spoon to scrape as much out as possible.

“Thank you for always bringing me breakfast, Krem. Even when I’m not sick,” Lavellan says, sniffling as she holds the steaming mug to her face.

“Not a problem, Inquisitor,” Krem replies, “It’s good for the legs, I think. Climbing up and down all these stairs every morning. Thank  _you_  for killing all those dragons and Red Templars and such. Though I’m pretty sure I’m speaking for all of us - ‘cept the Chief - when I say  _please stop finding High Dragons_.”

“It’s not like I can  _help_  it,” Lavellan protests, reaching out and blindly smacking at her sheets until she finds a tissue box. She pulls one out and sneezes into it. Three -  _four_  - five -  _six_  incredibly quick and high pitched sneezes.

So cute. So charming. So adorable.

Krem pets her hair.

“I’ll ask Dalish or Sera to come up to help you take a bath and wash your hair after Solas comes back down,” Krem says, “Eat up your worship. Maybe the oatmeal will burn your tongue or coat it in some sort of protective layer so you can’t taste whatever it is Solas has for you now.”

“Oh, if  _only_ ,” Lavellan sighs mournfully. “The worst part is that I can taste it with my  _eyes_.”

“I’m going to take that as a figure of speech rather than a symptom of fever.”


	113. Chapter 113

Lavellan stares up, her heart pounding in her chest - like the rabbit the shem like to call her - and her breathing is so incredibly loud in her ears.

Her palms sweat.

The energy blade that protrudes simply and unassumingly from the chest of - of - of the man claiming to be the Dread Wolf glows faintly, a sort of pearl-like rainbow of light that flickers in and out, the edges of it impossible to define.

Solas’ breath is cold as he calmly dissipates the blade, the now dead body crumpling on the dingy rock floor between them. His face is eerily calm, smooth - like marble, or perfect plastic. Untouched by anything that happened, everything that led them to this moment.

“You just killed the Dread Wolf,” Lavellan says in the echoing silence when Solas doesn’t say anything.

Solas raises an eyebrow at her, “He was  _not_  the Dread Wolf. Tell me you didn’t believe him when he said he  _was_.”

“I - well -  _he was very powerful!_  And - and clever and he - “ Lavellan stares helplessly at the crumpled body between them, “You just killed the Dread Wolf!”

“I did not kill the Dread Wolf,” Solas says, sounding exasperated. She takes his hand and he pulls her up. Her legs are shaking. “He, along with the rest of the people here, were delusional, Lavellan.”

“But what if he was telling the truth and  _you killed the Dread Wolf_?” Lavellan repeats. “Solas, I’ve never met anyone with such - such in depth knowledge or - or - the way he spoke and carried himself and  _everything_  - “

“Theatrics, Lavellan, nothing more,” Solas says, a sharp edge to his voice, “And even if he  _were_  the Dread Wolf, what do you have to be afraid of? You aim to kill a would-be Tevinter god.”

“Yes, but Corypheus is  _fake_ ,” Lavellan says, “The Dread Wolf isn’t. I know  _you_  don’t believe, but  _I_  do and I love my gods, even him.”

Solas’s face is tellingly blank. She knows he hates it whenever she talks about what she believes. He’s just too polite to say anything.

“Well then, if I really did just kill the Dread Wolf then there shouldn’t be anything to be afraid of,” Solas says, firmly dusting her off. They both grimace when a small puff of black coal dust and dirt rises from her shoulder where he was trying to brush her off. Solas’ fingertips and palm are black.

“It could be a slow arrow, he’s good at those, getting you when you least expect it,” Lavellan points out.

“I promise you, Lavellan,  _that man was not the Dread Wolf_ ,” Solas says, taking her hand in his and pulling her towards the upward slope leading - hopefully - out of the abandoned mine shafts. “And I’m sure that for someone as devout and dutiful as you, the Dread Wolf would forgive you killing one of his so-called  _acolytes_ , or such. Do the stories not teach that above all the Dread Wolf honors and respects those who look out for themselves?”

“Well, not in those words.”

“Fine, do they not teach that the Dread Wolf is the god of the selfish and the self-centered?”

“I’m not sure if that’s something I want to be,” Lavellan says, softly, legs shaking as she follows him through the dark and dimly lit tunnels. The buzz of the few electric lights crudely hung on hooks nailed into the walls is the only other sound aside from their breathing.

“It is not a bad thing to be, there are worse,” Solas says.

Lavellan swallows, hand tightening in Solas’ grip. He squeezes back after a beat. Her heart is something closer to woman than rabbit.

“I didn't know you could use a spirit blade,” Lavellan asks.

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?” Solas replies, “Just because you dedicate your focus to one school does not mean you have to be blind and ignorant to the other disciplines, Lavellan. Do not let those around you hen-peck you into on absolute path.”

Lavellan nods, slowly, and then asks, “How were you able to conjure it without a hilt?”

“The hilt helps to keep it focused and solid, but one does not necessarily need a hilt crafted,” Solas says, “A rock, a short stick, anything that you can grip will do. Or simply just the shape of it in the mind - as when you shape a wall of ice or fire in a line, or direct a shield to hold a spherical shape.”

She nods again, taking this information in. She looks back over her shoulder - the feeling of unease refusing to let her go.

“Solas?”

The man hums, looking between a split in the road - three ways.

“I’m sorry that I yelled at you before,” Lavellan says, “And that I called you all those terrible things. And that I ran off after. If I didn’t do that - if I didn't run away and if you didn’t have to come after me, neither of us would have been caught.”

“I’m glad I did come after you,” Solas says, pulling her towards the left most path, “I would rather not think of what would have happened if you were caught alone, Lavellan. As for the rest - you are forgiven.”

“Thank you, hahren. For forgiving me, and for coming after me, and for saving me.”

Lavellan knows that at the core of it - he did it because she’s the only one who can stop Corypheus. But she likes to think that there are other reasons, too.

“What do you think they were going to do to me down there?” Lavellan asks. They’re climbing up now, it's very steep.

"Again," Solas says, “I’d rather not think on it. Did they take your phone, Lavellan?”

“Yes, yours?”

“Unfortunately. With luck there will be people we could  _borrow_  a phone from once we reach the higher levels of the mine,” Solas says. He squeezes her hand kindly, “We can resume our discussion from earlier - perhaps more calmly - later. For now we must find our way out of these mines and into more familiar territory. And we must take care of this -  _cult_  as swiftly as possible. If there are others out there that would seek to use you for their own interpretations of what their  _gods_  would want - well. We have more problems than just an out-dated Magister with an ego.”


	114. Chapter 114

“Responsible vegetarian and veganism and other such alternative diets derive their most importance from how their material - hemp, vegetables, fruits, grains - are sourced,” Lavellan says, trailing behind at Bull’s elbow, “Animal cruelty is definitely something to be avoided but so is abuse of human labor, appropriation of resources, and starving out local and or indigenous cultures slash ethnicities. Also,  _sustainability_.”

“You tell’m, Boss,” Bull says, tossing a few boxes of ready to make meals into one of the carts he’s pushing. She’s been listening to either Sera or Dagna recently, or possibly both. Most likely both.

“I also respect the right to protest peacefully but harassing employees is terrible. Retail is one of the hardest jobs  _ever_ ,” Lavellan continues.

“Yeah, it’s really shitty to be a dick to someone who can’t fight back because of economic reasons,” Bull agrees, handing her three boxes of ice cream. Lavellan holds them as he digs out the boxes furthest back to put in the second cart. She darts in behind him to put the three boxes back.

Skinner has a  _thing_  about boxes from the front - regarding things such as ice cream, popsicles, candy bars, and snack foods.

Lavellan has a contemplative look on her face. Bull catches a glimpse of it when he closes the freezer door.

“Boss?” Bull asks.

“Yeah?” She asks as she continues to follow along after him, her basket - there’s nothing in it but some candy bars, a couple of mini-chip bags, and a bag of peanut butter filled pretzels - swinging on her arm - narrowly misses clipping the corner of the cart.

“You’re going to do something about the protesters outside, aren’t you?” Bull asks.

Lavellan smiles at him, “Well. I mean. It’s really only the decent thing to do. You shouldn’t be bad to retail workers. That’s not peaceful protesting. And I’m pretty sure they didn’t obtain those chickens legally. Nor were they properly looking after them.”

“You’re going to do something about the fake protesters,” Bull confirms to himself - rather than to her.

Lavellan starts to nod to herself.

“We should make a counter protest,” Lavellan says, “About responsible sourcing and agriculture and animal husbandry.”

“Pentaghast is going to have an ulcer or five,” Bull says. He’d pull his phone out to warn her - but hey. Two carts. Two hands. Shit luck, there.

“I’ll work on the counter protest afterwards,” Lavellan decides, “First thing is first. Ensuring the safety of the people coming in and out of this establishment.”

Lavellan beams.

“You’re going to call the police,” Bull throws out on a whim. A hopeful and already defeated whim. He’s been with her long enough to know that by now.

Lavellan bursts out laughing and pulls out her badge from underneath her shirt. The eye and sword of the Inquisition flash as the badge settles over her breast, catching the fluorescent light.

“Inquisitor on duty,” Bull says to the aisle, raising his voice just a little louder than you’d think necessary.

Scouts appear out of  _nowhere_. All of them pull Inquisition armbands out and slide them onto their sleeves, over their civilian clothing.

Well, not  _nowhere_. Bull likes to let him  _think_  out of nowhere. He knows exactly where they came from and how long they’ve been there. It’s like a little game to keep him sharp.

They salute.

“We’re going to protect the workers,” Lavellan announces, “Someone help me to check out because I need to pay first.”

“You go ahead, Boss,” Bull says, “I’ve got to finish getting stuff for Sera’s food drive and Montileyet’s free seminars. I’ll meet you in about half an hour.”

“Got it,” Lavellan flashes him an okay sign, “Where’s Blackwall? How long is that man going to look at cuts of meat? He never even buys anything!  _Blackwall!_ ”

-

“Do you ever just look at her go and or like - watch someone wind her up and you know it’s your responsibility to stop her, but you’re just all - “ Sera makes a helpless gesture with both hands, “Nah. Take her. Take her for free. I’ll throw in all my loose change, too. Just take her and go?”

“This assumes that I’ve ever had her,” Varric replies, “The answer is yes. Spiritually speaking. I’ve looked at a lot of people and just went  _nah_.”

Sera glances down at him, “You know what. You’re Varric. Forget I asked. Hey, Blackwall, you ever look at her and think that?”

Blackwall shrugs one shoulder, “I’m not here to keep an eye on her. Never said I would.”

“Because he’s a smart and clever man who knows better than to say stuff he can’t possibly do,” Varric says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small notebook, thumbing through pages.

“What’s that?” Sera tries to lean around to see what he’s looking at. Varric tilts the small notebook towards her. “A list?”

“Of all the places and things I’ve seen her go off on or about,” Varric says, “When this is all over I’m going to try and rate them. So far one of my personal favorites is socks with toes. And shoes with toes. Things that go on your feet with individual slots for your toes.”

“Those are weird, of course she’d go off on those. Anyone would go off on that,” Sera says. “They look  _creepy_ , too. Ugh.”

“Shorts with the word creepy on the ass is on here, also,” Varric says.

“What else?” Sera asks, bending down to read the page, “Men have pockets, see page one column one?”

“Oh yeah, that was one of the first things on the list,” Varric says, “She apparently got pissed that none of the clothes provided to her had pockets and she kept losing stuff and she had to ask for a needle and thread and some spare fabric to sew pockets into all of her borrowed clothes.”

“Reasonable,” Sera says and then reads off, “The entire Canticle of Shartan? Insurance caps? Checkered linoleum tiles? Backsplash?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know about the last two, keep reading.”

“Sugar packets,” Sera blinks, “No, she likes sugar packets.”

“Never said it was a list of things she didn’t like. It’s just a list of things she’ll go off on,” Varric says, “And you know how she can sometimes wax poetic at the drop of an eyelash.”

“Sugar packets,” Sera repeats, shaking her head.

“Sugar packets,” Varric confirms, finishing writing in the latest entry -  _plastic grass and the futility of it all_ along with a quick crude and pathetic looking sketch of Lavellan’s current facial expression - before tucking the notebook and pencil back into his jacket pocket.


	115. Chapter 115

“First, I’m going to eat my weight in pretzels, and  _then_  I’m going to eat Cassandra’s weight in mini-pizzas, and  _then_  I’m going to eat Bull’s weight in popcorn and that’s going to be  _so much popcorn_ , so I’ll have to wash it down with Cullen’s weight in sparkly water in the pink flavor - what’s the name of the pink flavor, Sera?”

“Fruit punch,” Sera says, applying a fresh coat of sunscreen over her bare arms, “It’s fruit punch flavor. A lot of punch and not much fruit.”

“Excellent! And then I’m going to eat  _your_  weight in candy floss, and then Cole’s weight in caramel apples - and Cole doesn’t weigh so much so that’s alright for my teeth -, and then I’m going go - “

Lavellan continues down her list of food items to eat.

It’s day  _two_  of their vacation - well, Lavellan’s vacation, everyone else’s nightmare - at the amusement park.

“Did you give her coffee?  _Again_? She was  _hearing colors_  last time,” Cassandra says to Varric, “Stitches checked her heart rate and it was beyond unacceptable. We almost had to call emergency services.”

“Nope, that’s one hundred percent natural Lavellan after a good night’s rest,” Varric says, “For once, I’m blameless in this.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes, “I doubt it, Varric. Somehow you are involved in all of this. And when I figure out  _how…”_

 _“_ Oh he’s definitely right on the not giving her coffee part,” Sera says, “She was talking right up until she fell asleep last night. She was asleep  _before_  her head hit the pillow and she was out like a light until six this morning. It was terrifying. One minute she was asleep and the next she was awake and chattering away like an alarm clock gone wrong. I’m trading rooms with one of you tonight. I don’t care anymore, I’m trading with someone. Dorian? She’s your best friend. Bull? You’re patient or something. Maybe you’re deaf because you’re old as fuck and you won’t get annoyed as much.”

“Not the best way to convince someone to do something for you, Sera,” Bull muses.

“Imagine,” Varric says as they watch Lavellan get directed between Stitches, Grim, and Rocky, “Once upon a time she got sensory overload and had to be rushed between heavily sound-proofed vehicles. Now she’s at an amusement park looking like a dancing bee.”

“You truly have a way with words,” Cullen muses, “I wish you’d use those words more helpfully.”

“Are you a little bitter because of the last time? I promise I didn't think they’d actually believe me and blame it all on you.”

“I never said I was bitter,” Cullen replies.

Lavellan gets close to passing by Rocky and he takes her hand, and in a carefully practiced and well executed move, uses her own momentum to turn her around so she’s walking towards Stitches.

Day two of the amusement park - they’re doing the other half of the park, now - and word that the Inquisitor of Thedas is here has gotten around.

She’d gotten just as many requests for pictures and autographs as the official mascots and employees. And bless her, whenever someone goes up to her to ask, she looks around like it could be  _anyone else but her_ , and she says something along the lines of -  _you know, I don’t work here, so I’m not sure why you’d want my autograph or picture but alright, I suppose._

When they went to get their hands re-stamped Dorian and Cullen just barely managed to snag the hand with the Anchor before she held it out for stamping.

Someone would have had a  _stroke_.

Whether it would be the employee doing the stamping, Cullen, Cassandra, or Josephine once she heard about it would be anyone’s guess. Certainly not Lavellan, though.

Lavellan pauses in between her trek between Stitches and Rocky, gaze fixed on something in the distance.

Everyone turns to her.

“Is she breathing?” Sera asks.

Cullen goes to check, putting a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder.

The young woman’s eyes are wide, and her mouth is hanging open a little.

As fast as she moves in a fight, her hand shoots out and grabs Cullen by the front of the shirt and yanking him down to her level. Cullen stumbles, half-way being held up by her grip, as he awkwardly stares up at her.

“Inquisitor?”

“Cullen,” She breathes out, pupils blown wide, “ _What is that_?”

Everyone turns and looks in the direction she’s facing. And then up. And up.  _And up_.

“Oh no,” Cassandra whispers.

“Well, I thought this would last longer for later,” Bull pulls out a flask and Cassandra immediately grabs it from his hands and takes a swig, passing it to Dorian who takes a drink.

“I’d pass this to you, Rutherford, but someone has to be sober for this,” Dorian says.

“Probably shouldn’t get drunk and a children’s theme park,” Krem says, prying the flask from Dorian’s fingers and taking a drink for himself.

“We’re not getting drunk,” Dalish plucks the flask from him, “We’re softening the blow to our senses.”

“I can’t believe she managed to find the one ride more dangerous than the one from yesterday,” Stitches says.

“I,” Lavellan breathes out, voice dropping low into several octaves below her normal voice - into what most of them would consider her  _Command_  voice, “Am going on that ride. I am going on that ride  _today_. I am going on that ride  _right now_.”

“She has to get this from you,” Dorian says to Bull.

“Oh, yes, because she gets so much from me the guy she met about seven months ago,” Bull drawls, “Like all of you are getting  _my_  fucking whiskey.”

“I’m taking this in the name of the Inquisition,” Cassandra says, “I need it more.”

“I’m glad you’re finally loosening up, Seeker, but this really isn’t the best way. Alcoholism?”

“Those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Dorian says as Lavellan starts to  _stride_  - in a manner she could have only learned from Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast - towards the ride, dragging Cullen with her by the collar. “Out of pity for the Commander, I say that after this travesty we send him to fetch things and wait in line for the rest of the day. That way he’s out of her clutches. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Everyone says as they start to follow after the two, “That said, who’s going to take his place?”


	116. Chapter 116

“He’s the fake, it’s a trap Inquisitor,” One of the two Blackwalls says, desperately pointing at the other man.

The soldiers look between the two and Inquisitor Lavellan who looks entirely bored with these proceedings.

“I do not have time for this,” Lavellan cuts into the speaking man’s hurried and urgent calls for her to believe that he’s the real one. She reaches and pulls the side arm she almost has  _never_  used and fires twice at the speaking Blackwall.

Everyone startles, even the  _second_  Blackwall, turning to watch the speaking Blackwall crumple. Lavellan starts walking, already putting her side-arm back into the holster. Everyone stares - looking between the fallen Blackwall and the one still standing, for a second absolutely sure she was wrong -

And then the shot Blackwall starts to hiss and smolder and turns into a demon. A dead demon.

“Good to know Dorian  _did_  succeed in infusing spells into the bullets,” Lavellan muses, “He’s going to be very pleased. Let’s  _move_. We don’t have time to linger.”

Blackwall falls into step with her without a second thought.

“How did you know it was me?” Blackwall asks as they hurry through the labyrinth of corridors and lab rooms. Some of them already raided by Inquisition forces, some of them empty. Lavellan signals soldiers to stay behind and check the empty ones they pass.

“Well, for one thing, I knew that  _our_  Blackwall would never pass up a chance to die,” Lavellan replies.

Blackwall’s chest does a strange painful twist at the word _our_. Hers, really.

He has been ever since she dragged him out of a death and forced him to look life in the face.

“And for another, you’re never so verbose,” Lavellan says, pausing and allowing him to check the way forward, “Unless, of course, you’re trying to convince me to kill you or let you be killed. Otherwise you’re so stoic and brooding that anyone would consider you to be here against your will. Which you aren’t.”

Blackwall grunts. “Debatable.”

Lavellan doesn’t laugh because he’s singled her for silence as there’s guards approaching. But she does whisper, very softly, “But didn’t you say that you will only listen to what  _I_  want, now,  _Blackwall_?”

Blackwall surges forward and slams his elbow against an unprotected nose. The blood is presumably warm where it splatters on his clothes and he follows up with grabbing the body and shoving it into the guy next to him, ramming them hard against a wall with all his weight.

“Yes, lady,” He breathes out as he quickly dispatches the two guards and gestures for her to go forward.

Lavellan laughs now; there are two dead men at her feet and Blackwall has at least one of their blood on him. She pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to him. He doesn’t bother protesting that it would ruin a perfectly good handkerchief and that he’s probably going to get bloodied again later. There’s no point in protesting logic against Inquisitor Lavellan’s desires. Maybe that’s why she’s such a good Inquisitor. And a dangerous one.

-

“How long do you plan on being here?” Fenris asks his uninvited houseguest after his patience wears out. He likes to think that - perhaps due to Hawke’s past influence, as well as the steady grind of the people around him on his jagged edges and jagged temper - he has somewhat gained more of this.

That said, he waits two days before asking.

“I have had every single person in you acquaintance on my phone or at my door asking to see you,” Fenris says, “And I grow tired of slamming the door and or phone down on them because you prefer to keep yourself hidden.”

Former Inquisitor Lavellan just looks at him, the dark skin underneath her eyes no better looking for the  _hours_  she sleeps in his spare room, her skin overall no more healthier looking for all that he makes sure she eats and drinks and generally takes a basic amount of care for herself.

The woman did not come to Fenris for him to make her feel better. She came here because she knows that out of all the people she knows he’s the least likely to meddle or be soft on her. There is a certain kind of grief and rage that is only further kindled by another person’s kindness.

Fenris knows this well.

“How long can you hold them off?” She asks.

“It is  _my_  house, I can hold them off for as long as I want,” Fenris replies, “How long will you be here?”

Lavellan’s eyes flicker, “How long  _will_  you hold them off?”

Clever, clever, clever. Fenris is surrounded in clever and grief-stricken women.

“You have two more days,” Fenris answers.

Lavellan nods, “I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Gone to where?” Fenris asks. It is part the knowledge that their mutual acquaintances will ask him where she went and get angry at him for not knowing, and it is part his own concern that drives him to ask. Even if he already knows the answer.

“Wherever it doesn’t hurt to breathe,” Lavellan answers, “Wherever I don’t have to look at something and know that it is supposed to be mine. Wherever I can go that won’t ask me why I left.”

“Poetic,” Fenris says. He wonders if she sees, at all, how she’s so much like her mentor. He supposes she must.

She’s too clever to miss it.

There’s a certain irony to the fact that Solas, the wandering dreamer, now has a seat and an organization while Lavellan, the Inquisitor, now wanders adrift and unmoored.

Lavellan shrugs and Fenris leaves her to her poetry. He thinks - after Varric and Aveline and Anders and Sebastian and Merrill and Isabella and the Hawke family - he can understand poets, just a little.

Fenris leaves for his morning run.

He is unsurprised when he returns to an empty home, not a single trace of Lavellan’s existence ever coexisting with his in this space left.

The Lavellan he met years ago would have hated how much of a liar she has been turned into, he knows.

The Fenris he was years ago would hate how soft he is, now. The Fenris he was years ago would have never had the urge, the desire, the hurt, to wish he could run after her and drag her back and shake her until the hurt leaves her. The Fenris he was years ago would have never let her in the door, in the first place.

They cannot hurt you if you don’t give them a chance.


	117. Chapter 117

“When I die, I want Solas to scatter my ashes so he can throw me off a cliff unceremoniously one last time,” Lavellan says.

“One, you aren’t dying,” Sera says, “Two, that’s a burn I hope he feels wherever he’s fucking around right now. Three, if you die who’s going to lead the not-Inquisition? No one wants that. You’re literally the only one who can do it.”

“There were about four Inquisitors before me.”

“All dead.”

“Like I’m about to be.”

“You need to stop talking to Varric’s friends, they’ve given you a shitty sense of humor,” Sera says. “Talk to me instead. Mine’s an angry and bitter sense of humor, but it’s not like - inherently geared towards death as an endgame.”

Lavellan groans and makes a feeble attempt at rolling over. She can’t because she has a broken leg. Well, broken, bruised, and cracked  _everything_  really.

Sera pats her hand, “You want me to scratch your leg for you?”

“Can we cut it off?”

“Listen, you’re already down one arm, I don’t think you need to be down a leg, too.”

“Peg legs work.”

“Not for you miss jump, spring, skip, tumble,” Sera says, “Come on, stop being dramatic.”

“But Dorian isn’t here to be dramatic  _for_  me,” Lavellan says.

“I don’t know why any of us put up with you, still,” Sera says, “The Inquisition isn’t even on the books anymore.”

“You love me, that’s why,” Lavellan replies, gazing up at the ceiling mournfully as she picks at the thin hospital blanket.

“You’ve done something funny with our heads and we can’t leave you. You’ve instilled a strange and unhealthy dependency in us where we feel a constant need to come back to you and fret over you like you’re some sort of charm magnet. Horrific. Every time I’m near you, I feel like I’ve slipped into a B-rated horror movie.”

“Only B?”

“If we were an A rated horror movie we’d have some measure of realism. No, instead we had people turning into lyrium that had the  _Blight_  and actual demons raining from the sky. Don’t forget the ancient cult of genocidal dicks.”

“Really, there’s only the one ancient genocidal dick who’s taking advantage of the disenfranchised to mobilize them into his army,” Lavellan says.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Sera leans back in the hospital chair, propping her feet up on the edge of Lavellan’s bed. “You get any good channels?”

“Sometimes if the weather is just right, I can get re-runs of old cartoons. The rest of it is just really badly scripted talk shows,” Lavellan says.

-

“You can’t just live like a wandering vagrant forever,” Blackwall says, “Eventually you’re going to resume command. Ideally in one place.”

“Pot meet kettle," Lavellan replies, trying on different sunglasses. He’s pretty sure she’s torn between the one with a rainbow finish and the one with daisies. Either way, both of them fail to hide the impressive bruising covering the entire right side of her face. Blackwall’s surprised she didn’t lose any teeth. “I can definitely be a wandering vagrant forever, Blackwall. I mean. If  _you_  could do it and  _Solas_  could do it and  _Fenris_  could do it and  _Isabella_  could do it - “

“You are surrounded in bad influences and I apologize for being one of them.”

“I can definitely do it. It’s all a matter of will power.”

“You will drive the better half of the people we know to tears.”

“That’s okay,” Lavellan says, “I’ve learned over the past four years that sometimes you can’t help how people feel about you and you’ve just got to let it go. You shouldn’t change yourself against your nature to make other people happy. Daisy or rainbow?”

“Daisy,” Blackwall says and Lavellan beams at him. When in doubt go flowers. “So you’re just going to go from gas station to gas station and hopping between everyone’s spare rooms?”

“Well sometimes I stay in Bull’s hotel room. Or Krem’s. I mean, he’s got an entire team of people who’s hotel rooms I can stay at. They can’t  _all_  be busy entertaining at once. What if their employer needs them?”

Blackwall refrains from pointing out that the Chargers, in heart and soul, will always consider Lavellan to be their one true employer. Everyone is is just a side business until Lavellan gets back on track and ready to go.

“Speaking of, does your hotel room have a mini fridge?”

“Motel room, and yes.”

“Microwave?”

“I have to unplug the fridge to use it.”

Lavellan frowns, “It’ll do. Let’s go.”

Blackwall doesn’t question this. He’s long beyond questioning things when it comes to Lavellan. It’s easier to accept and succumb. That is probably a dangerous line of thought, a dangerous way of thinking and behaving, but its somehow safe when attached to someone like former (in Blackwall’s, and may other people’s minds,  _still current_ ) Inquisitor Lavellan.

“Have you eaten, Blackwall?” Lavellan asks as she’s buying her sunglasses from the incredibly awe-struck looking gas station attendant. “Let’s go eat. We must sustain ourselves. What shall we have to eat?”

“I’m low on money,” Blackwall tells her. Lavellan appreciates upfront honesty.

“That’s fine,” Lavellan nods. “I’m not.”

Blackwall raises his eyebrows at her as they walk out into the afternoon. Lavellan rips off the tag from her sunglasses, picks off the sticker, and puts them on, hand on her hip as she takes in the small little town -  _village, really_ \- that they ran into each other in. Blackwall’s not sure if she did this on purpose or not.

“Food,” Lavellan says, gesturing at the general vicinity of  _people_  around them. “There’s going to be some somewhere. Let’s find it.”

“As you say,” Blackwall says, slowly following after her as she marches towards the center of the town - village - and ignores the traffic lights. He’d honestly have gotten upset at her for that before, but there are no cars in any direction and he figures that there’s no harm in it. “Should I be on the look out for anything while we’re finding food?”

“Feds, probably,” Lavellan says, “Press? Helicopters?”

The usual, then.

“Understood.”

“Also, my stag is around here  _somewhere_ , I just don’t know  _where_. I was hoping I’d find him at the gas station since that seems close to the edge of this town, but no.”


	118. Chapter 118

“We, as ever, await your next orders, Inquisitor.”

“But there is no longer any Inquisition,” Lavellan says, and her eyes are full of spite, malice, dark and angry things that glow brightly. “And there is no longer an Inquisitor.”

“As they say,” Cullen says returning that look flatly. He is…not so young anymore. He’s gone through three attempts at rebuilding himself. He is not as naive or complicit or many, many other things he’s sure Leliana has teased him about before.

Only Leliana can say the word  _sweet_  like it’s a fatal flaw. Perhaps it was even one of hers, once.

Lavellan’s mouth curves up, “There are no orders I can give you, because I no longer have the authority for such orders.”

Regardless of whether or not there is an Inquisition or Inquisitor, there is still a Spymaster, and Ambassador, and a Commander. There is still an army, there is still a sizable fleet of vehicles, there still remains roves of accountants, funds, managers, and various sundry staff. There still remains a network of information that continues to light up like a city at night, or the paths in the brain.

These things do not necessarily make an Inquisition, nor are they necessarily called one. But they exist and they look to the sky for the storm that  _will_ come. And they know exactly where to turn for guidance through it.

These people who were once the Inquisition, but are now nameless, but not directionless or leaderless, are not idiots who are going to wait to be shot like fish in a barrel.

People who’ve slipped past death once tend to gain a sense, a talent, for knowing when it approaches from the shadows again.

Cullen thinks that maybe his taste for death has been a long time practiced and it has, perhaps, made him quicker to cast things aside. Like care for rule of law.

Not much for the law to rule if everyone is dead, after all.

“And yet,” Cullen lets the sentence hang as he meets her eyes. This is a familiar game, one that Leliana and Josephine have been teaching him, but one he started to learn (poorly) in Kirkwall, “Your orders.”

Lavellan’s mouth continues to curve, like the arc of a knife, “Proceed as you are. I’ve been making good progress on the outside. Continue to coordinate through Leliana and Cole. Be prepared to dispatch a discreet squadron soon. Is there anything I should know?”

“Skyhold continues to baffle all Orlesian and Ferelden architects and researchers and…reclaimers,” Cullen says. The word is strange in his mouth.  _Thieves_ , he wants to say instead. Lavellan’s smile grows wings like she knows that’s what he wants to say, too.

“I take it the castle and castle grounds continue to spit out these interlopers with the same discretion as Sera evicting unread letters from her window?”

“I’m told that they are going to try and press for charges of sabotage and resistance. Again.”

“And how is that going to go?”

“The same way as the last, I suppose. We left peacefully. They watched us leave. And it’s common knowledge that Skyhold rests on magic ground and has certain…legends about it. i suppose they could always try destroying the castle, but somehow I don’t think that would go over well with the general population of Thedas.”

Lavellan casts a pointed look out the hotel window. There’s a graffiti mural that looks like the Inquisition’s insignia and a tangle of words that overlap that most likely says something along the lines of  _look to the sky_.

“We’ll need the rest of the people in our favor,” Lavellan says, “Let us hope that Orlais and Ferelden aren’t stupid enough to try and destroy the mountain just to get rid of the castle on it.”

Cullen should probably feel a stronger need to defend his former nation.

“I doubt Queen Anora would permit such…waste,” Cullen says. “Also. Some more…unpleasant news.”

“Report.”

“Our latest attempt at infiltrating Solas’,” Lavellan’s face does an impressive job of not revealing anything. Cullen would be unnerved if he didn’t know better. Her face reveals nothing without changing because  _she’s already feeling_ the anger, the bitterness, the spite. There is no change if the darkness never leaves you. “Group has ended. Abruptly. I would say poorly but that would be a generous use of the word. We can only assume the agent has turned. It would be somewhat grim for us to hope they are dead, but…”

“How high up?”

“Not very and reporting to an indirect branch led by Harding instead of Leliana. There should not be much to learn through conventional means,” Cullen says. Should we continue with infiltration?”

“No, stop attempts. For now,” Lavellan says, fingers brushing the curtains of the window as she looks at the graffiti.

Cullen lets a minute tick by in perfect silence. There has never been a need between them to speak for comfort.

He remembers mornings, afternoon, nights where she would come in just to sit and play with some string by his desk, or fiddle with his files, or just sleep in a corner. He remembers her coming and going, sometimes saying  _hello_ , most often times not at all. Cullen wonders if Lavellan is remembering those times also. Does she remember them as fondly as he?

Lavellan’s fingers absently worry at the fabric of the curtains, her mind and focus no longer on the painted walls outside.

“Dagna has a new prototype for you to try,” Cullen says, now that business is over. The silence does not shatter or break so much as it retreats, like fog. “Along those lines, Sera’s told me she’s figured a way to work tangerines into Fuck Orlais Cookies.”

Lavellan’s smile flashes, like a computer screen as it’s power plug is pulled. A glimpse of an image that the mind can almost grasp but loses before coherence.

“Ask her if she’s figured out the cashew part yet. I’ll probably make my way over to her within the next few months. And let Dagna know I appreciate it. I’ll try and find a way to her soon.”


End file.
